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BY THE SAME AUTHOR 





THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF 

THE NEW RECTOR 

THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE 
A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE 

THE MAN IN BLACK 

UNDER THE RED ROBE 

MY LADY ROTHA 

MEMOIRS OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE 
THE RED COCKADE 
SHREWSBURY 

THE CASTLE INN 

SOPHIA 

COUNT HANNIBAL 

IN KINGS’ BYWAYS 

THE LONG NIGHT 

THE ABBESS OF VLAYE 
STARVECROW FARM 

CHIPPINGE 

LAID UP IN LAVENDER 

THE WILD GEESE 

OVINGTON’S BANK 

THE GREAT HOUSE 

THE TRAVELLER IN THE FUR CLOAK 


QUEEN’S FOLLY 


BY 


STANLEY J. WEYMAN 


Author of ‘‘Under the Red Robe,’’ ‘‘A Gentleman of France,”’ 
“‘Ovington’s Bank,’’ ‘The Traveller in the 
Fur Cloak,’’ ete. 


NEW YORK 
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
55 FIFTH AVENUE 
1925 


Copyright, 1925, 
BY 
STANLEY J. WEYMAN 


MADE IN THE UNITED STATES 


CHAPTER 


1B 


rT, 
BLL. 


AV 


. A VERY PLEASANT HELP . 


CONTENTS 


THE COTTAGE . 


FARING ForTH . 
THe CAPTAIN . 


AT QUEEN’s FOLLY 


. In TROUBLE 
. GAINING A FOOTING 
. THE VEIL RENT 
. A Brute! 
. BROTHER AND SISTER . 
. THE SURPRISE . 
ALI. 
oh LL. 
XIV. 
XV. 
eV I. 
S, XVIL. 
EXVIIL. 
XX. 


IN SOCIETY 

A Court oF LOVE . 
ANNA FURENS . 
INTERCESSION 

A GoLDEN Haze . 

THE ROASTING OF GEORGE 
THE DISCLOSURE 

A GLAss oF WINE . 


DOUBLE OR QUITS . 
V 


PAGE 


18 
28 
35 
43 
56 
66 
v9 
89 
97 


LOS 
Ses Ak 
Pe teas 
0 Lov 
. 146 
. 158 
. 164 
~ 175 
. 184 


vi 


CHAPTER 


XXII. 
XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 
XXVIII. 
X XIX. 
XXX. 
XXXI. 
XXXIT. 
XXXII. 
XXXIV. 
XXXV. 
XXXVI. 
XXXVIT. 


CONTENTS 


THE BOWLING-GREEN . 

THE RETURN OF A SASH . 
AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS . 
MEDEA TO THE RESCUE 

Two IN A POSTCHAISE . 
THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT . 
THE RETURN 

THE CAPTAIN AT Bay . 

Her Sorrer SIDE . 

Ripine Lessons 

THE FLOOD-GATES RAISED 

A CLIMAX ». 

IN THE STABLE-COURT . 


SUSPENSE 


Tuer BrerteR PART OF COURAGE . 


HoME 


THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARB! . 


PAGE 


. 195 
. 206 
. 213 
. 221 
~ 228 
. 240 
. 250 
. 209 
. 269 
Ba! (0) 
. 288 
. 298 
. 308 
. 318 
. 328 
. 336 
. 346 


QUEEN’S FOLLY 


— 


CHAPTER I 
THE COTTAGE 


Mrs. SoutH’s worn hand trembled on the yellowish ivory 
handle as she gave the teapot a last skilful twirl before 
she filled the three cups. Ruth’s tongue rattled on, and 
Rachel hung midway, her attention divided between the 
extravagant fancies that tripped lightly from the child’s 
lips, and the tender fears that brimmed the mother’s eyes, 
as often as they rested on her elder daughter. ‘T'o enter 
fully into those fears would have needed a longer experi- 
ence of life than Rachel possessed—for what experience 
of life had she beyond the sheltering walls of the thatched 
fuchsia-clad cottage before which, and barely a hundred 
yards away, the sea murmured and rippled? But the im- 
minence of the parting that lay before her, and many a 
waking fear sobered the girl’s thoughts; so that even ‘vhile 
she lent a half-willing ear to her sister’s rose-coloured tale, 
her lip trembled in sympathy with her mother’s appre- 
hensions. She knew that she was leaving all whom she 
loved and all whom she knew, and leaving them to enter 
on a life unknown and untried. She knew that she was 
looking her last for many a day on the snug lamp-lit room, 
in which every object, from the kettle bubbling on the hob 
to the darned table-cloth and the dim oval mirror above 


the mantle, was familiar to her; and as her gaze took a 
1 


2 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


slow farewell of each, a hand seemed to clutch her heart. 
She choked as she tried to swallow. 

But youth is the season of hope as of courage, and 
Rachel had a brave spirit in her slender form. Rather 
than that her mother should divine the momentary panic 
that seized her, she would have bitten her tongue. She 
turned the choke into a laugh, and flirted a crumb at Ruth. 
“Oh, silly Ruth!” she said in her elder-sister’s voice. 
“Conquests and balls, silly child! Do you think that they 
come in the way of governesses? Little goose, | am going 
out for forty pounds a year and my coach-fare, and not 
for conquests! And to sit in my schoolroom with no fire 
on cold days and correct exercises, and not for balls! 
Balls, indeed! I’m lucky, my dear, to get the place, and 
oh, mother, how it will help me afterwards—to have taught 
a Lady Ann! I wonder, shall I have to call her Lady 
Ann? ‘Twelve years old and Lady Ann!” 

Mrs. South looked her perplexity. “I’m sure I don’t 
know,” she answered, diverted for the moment from her 
deeper anxieties. “I think you should ask Lady 
Ellingham.” 

“Yes, mother, I suppose so.” 

“But la!” Ruth exclaimed, “what fun it will be for you! 
To live in a great house with Lord This and Lady That! 
Do you think that they will all wear stars on their coats?” 

“My dear, I shall not see them once in a blue moon, and 
that will be at a mile off. I shall be upstairs with a globe 
and a blackboard and a pile of lesson-books. You may be 
sure that I shall see little enough of lords and ladies.” 
And involuntarily Rachel winced as she recalled the ter- 
rible, terrible interview with Lady Elisabeth in the Close— 
the dreadful old lady with the silver-headed cane and the 
green shade over her sightless eyes, who had engaged her; 
who had called her “the young person,” and had discussed 
her with her waiting-woman as freely and as inhumanly 
as if she had been a hundred miles away instead of stand- 
ing on trembling knees, within a pace of the old lady’s 


THE COTTAGE 3 


high-backed chair. That painiul interview had indeed 
driven Rachel to within an ace of withdrawal. For half an 
hour she had been minded to withdraw. Then the thought 
of her mother, and their need, had renewed her courage. 

But the memory remained. It had been a wretched or- 
deal. She might have been a stick or a stone for the little 
regard that had been paid to her sensibilities. 

“How is the young person dressed, Puncheon ?” the old 
lady had asked. 

The waiting-woman had not even looked at her—her 
trained eye had taken all in at a glance. “In a tippet and 
a black bombazine with white spots, and a Tuscan trimmed 
black.” 

“No fringes or falbalas? You are sure of that?” 

“No, my lady, quite plain-like.” 

“What sort of an air has she? Is she respectable?” 

“T should say so, my lady.” 

“Handsome? Likely to take the fellows? And give 
trouble ?” 

For the first time the woman had glanced at the flushed 
indignant face, with a gleam of fellow-feeling, but no 
spark of humour in her eyes. “The young lady is not ill- 
looking, my lady, but quiet-like.” 

“Demure, eh? Umph! Nine times out of ten they are 
the worst. But if she’s no beauty she’ll not fly above the 
chaplain, and that’s his business. Ellingham is a rip 
but he has an eye in his head and stoops only at game 
of a feather. Well, Mr. Dean answers for her French. 
Where,” and she had poked her cane at the trembling girl, 
“did you get your accent, girl? I’m told it’s passable.” 

“From M. Bourlay, the émigré, madam.” 

“Umph! If poor George Selwyn were alive he’d like 
nothing better than to try her. But,’ fumbling in her 
lap for her gold snuff-box, “George and his kind are gone. 
There are no gentlemen now, Puncheon. They went out 
with wigs and silk stockings. Well, the young person may 
go. She'll hear from me. It’s forty pounds and her 


4 QUEEN’S FOLLY, 


coach-fare—d’you hear, Puncheon. And bid her behave 
herself in her station. But she’s young and a woman,” 
she had added grimly, “‘and bidding’s no more than wind 
in the grass when a young spark makes a leg. There, let 
her go. I’m tired.” 

A dreadful interview and a terrible old lady! Rachel 
had gone from it to the Cathedral and had sat an hour, 
cooling her burning face and stemming the angry tears 
that would rise to her eyes. And for one half of that time 
she had been minded to withdraw her application. But 
the thought of her mother, and, a little also the thought 
of their good friend the Dean, who had recommended her, 
had prevailed. She had put the temptation from her, and 
gradually the unpleasant memory had faded, only to re- 
turn with unhappy clearness now when it availed only to 
oppress the fluttering heart with a momentary panic. 

But her mother was speaking and Rachel struggled to 
control her feelings. “It’s the servants I am afraid of,” 
Mrs. South said, speaking out of her little store of experi- 
ence. “In those great houses they are impudent. You 
must keep them in their place, my dear, or they will en- 
croach. And you’ll never forget, Rachel, that you are 
the greatgrandniece of Dr. South—Dr. South the Divine, 
my dear. I hope you will never forget that, and tell them 
if it is necessary. I think they will respect you then.” 

“La, mother,” Ruth cried, “how often you’ve told us 
that. J believe you’d like us to go about with a label 
round our necks ‘Great grandniece of Dr. South? I 
should laugh to death if I saw Rachel with one.” — 

“My dear, the truth is the truth,” Mrs. South rejoined. 
“And where Rachel is going—among strangers—it will not 
be known. And she will be wise if she lets it be known 
so that she may take her proper place. She might tell 
my lady, or the chaplain perhaps—he would be a proper 
person.” 

Rachel wondered—with a touch of irony, for already 
she was learning her worldly lesson—what Lady Elisabeth 


THE COTTAGE 5 


would have said to Dr. South. But she only replied that 
she would remember. 

“And if you are asked down in the evening—as I should 
expect when the family are alone—you have your white 
muslin. But you look so young in it that I am not sure 
after all that it will be wise. And as to caps you need 
not have taken to them for the next five years, seeing you 
are only nineteen turned, but in your position it may be 
expected. You had better ask the Countess.” 

“T will, mother.” 

“She'll be kind to you I hope. I hear she is young 
but”—Mrs. South sighed—“you must not expect too much. 
And, oh dear, I wish someone was going with you. I 
think after all I had better come with you.” 

“And spend all that money, mother!” Rachel was stout 
about it. “And have to come back alone! No, indeed, 
ma’am. You know the coach always makes you ill. And 
M. Bourlay is to meet me at Exeter and see me into the 
coach, and after that there is but the one change at Salis- 
bury. Oh, I shall do very well, I assure you.” 

“And you'll write at once. I shall not have a happy 
moment until I hear from you.” 

“Indeed I will. And perhaps Lady Ellingham will give 
- me a frank so that it will cost you nothing.” 

“And you'll tell us everything? If the child sleeps in 
your room and what your hours are?” 

“And what Lady Ellingham wears,” Ruth put in eagerly. 
“And what company they have, and be sure to tell me if 
Lord Ellingham wears his star. Oh! What a letter we 
shall have, mother! And don’t forget to tell us when 
you wear your white muslin and which sash with it. La, 
Rachel, I would like to see you primming it about in your 
cap, as if you were an old maid! Ill be bound you'll look 
as mild as a mouse.” 

Rachel’s thoughts strayed for a moment to the white 
muslin, and, if the truth be told, drew some comfort from 
the contemplation of it and of the blue and the black 


6 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


sashes that went with it. And the caps might be prema- 
ture, but as tried on before her tiny glass upstairs had 
seemed not unbecoming. ‘Then the strange folk among 
whom she was going? ‘They could not be all forbidding 
and rude like Lady Elisabeth. ‘They could not be all old 
and inhuman. Lady Ellingham was young and might 
be kind. 

So she tried, and not in vain, to rally her spirits. But 
the last evening, and that half spent! Her lp trembled 
in spite of all her efforts. A few hours, so few that she 
could number them on her fingers, and she would have 
looked her last for a long year on the loving faces and the 
dear home-things that had cradled her from infancy; on 
Richard, the white-whiskered tabby, that she had teased 
and fondled so often; on the stool on which she had sat 
and crooned her doll to sleep, and the cottage dresser 
beneath which she had kept shop and sold currant-water 
for wine; on a hundred things endeared to her by recollec- 
tions of work and play, and above all on the worn face 
of the mother whose love had warmed her and sheltered 
her all the days of her life—the life that had seemed at 
times dull and eventless, but now held out clinging arms 
to her, dressed itself in the colours of home, offered its 
lap of peace and security. 

Now she must leave all and enter a formal and un- 
friendly world, where she must stand alone, unfended and 
unwelcome, just a machine, priced and paid for, a young 
person—as Lady Elisabeth had styled her. 

But though Rachel quailed on the threshold of the hard 
road that tens of thousands, young and timid as she, have 
travelled, the lonely road that leaves on one side love and 
the ties of nature, she had a brave heart and her spirit 
rose on the wings of youth. For after all this was adven- 
ture. For her no coming out, no first ball with its wakeful 
hours of anticipation and the delicious tremors that set 
the feet dancing; but instead this faring-forth with its 
charm of the untried and the unknown, its call on nerve 


THE COTTAGE 7 


and will, its vague promise. So she forced a smiling word, 
and chid Ruth for her extravagances, even while she noted 
with a pang her mother’s toil-hardened hands, her greying 
hair, her careworn face. 

Fortunately there were still things to do, even after the 
tea cups were gone; and be sure that among the odds and 
ends to be packed Bath post was not forgotten, though, 
“La, mother,” Ruth remonstrated, “there’ll be paper there. 
Hot-pressed and I don’t know what!’ 

“Yes, mother, there will be sure to be writing-paper.” 

But Mrs. South was not to be moved. “I don’t know 
what there may be. But you’ll take some, Rachel. I 
shall be miserable if I don’t know that you have it and 
can write at any moment. There is no knowing in great 
houses what there is and what there is not. And don’t 
you wait, child, for franks or anything of that kind. And 
now,” she continued with an anxious look at the clock, 
“we must go to bed if you are to leave at six.” 

Fine words! But what mother could bear to cut short 
the last evening, what mother’s heart could rob itself of 
those last moments over the expiring fire when all had 
been done and the breakfast cups stood ready on the table? 
Was there not always some new caution to be given, some 
word of advice to be repeated? Or some mute caress, 
some loving glance? At length, however, the moment 
came. ‘The lamp was extinguished, the wood embers were 
raked together, they passed candle in hand into the little 
passage where Rachel’s cow-hide trunk, lying small and 
lonely at the foot of the stairs, dealt their hearts a fresh 
blow. 

But at the head of the steep flight which Rachel’s child- 
ish feet had trodden a thousand times, the mother’s heart 
revolted. “Do you go to Rachel’s bed, my dear,” she said 
to Ruth. “She may sleep with me to-night. I have some- 
thing to say to her.” And when Ruth would have de- 
murred, Mrs. South’s face stayed the remonstrance. 

Alone with her child and with the door closed on them 


8 | QUEEN’S FOLLY, 


the mother’s composure gave way. “Oh, my lamb, my 
lamb!” she cried, and folded the wanderer to her breast, 
“God keep you! You don’t know what is before you, and 
I don’t. But I know that it is a hard world, and you'll 
need to be wise. You are going among strangers and 
you'll have cold words, and cold looks, and some may be, 
that may not be cold, but may be worse. Oh, my own, 
promise me that you will be careful. That you will think 
of me waiting and watching and hungering for a word. 
You'll think of me, Rachel, if trouble comes or—or tempta- 
tion. For I have only you and Ruth, and Ruth I can fend 
for, but you, you must fend for yourself. You'll think, 
my darling, won’t you?” 

But what more she said and what Rachel promised her, 
as the two women clung together under the humble sloping 
roof—are there not things so sacred, so hallowed by love 
that even a bird of the air may not carry them abroad? 


CHAPTER II 
FARING ForRTH 


M. BourtAay—some called him M. de Bourlay, but no one 
in Exeter knew whether he had a right to the particle, 
the status of the émigrés being a standing puzzle to John 
Bull—danced up and down and waved his little cocked hat 
after the coach. “Bon voyage! Au revoir et 4 bientdt!” 
he cried. And heedless of ridicule and of the grinning 
loafers before Foot’s hotel he blew kisses after his pupil, 
until to the lilting notes of “Oh, dear, what can the matter 
be?” mounting from the guard’s key bugle into the crisp 
early air, the coach swung out of sight round a corner. 

It was not until this, the last strand that bound her to 
home, had parted, and she knew that for some hours she 
had only to sit with her feet in the straw and await her 
fate, that Rachel gave way and cried a little in her corner. 
She could do so unwatched, for she had but two compan- 
ions, a stout tradesman and his stouter wife, and they were 
too busy blaming one another for the tardiness that had 
nearly cost them their seats, to pay heed to the little girl 
in the bonnet and tippet, who sat so still in her corner. 
By the time the team had struggled up Straightway Hill, 
youth, the changing scene and the sunshine of a fine morn- 
ing had made their claim, and Rachel had dried her tears. 

It was the first of September and here and there she saw 
sportsmen with their dogs crossing the stubbles, or wading 
through turnips. At Honiton volunteers were drilling in 
the wide street, sharp orders rang out, men, their pouches 
flapping against their legs, ran to and fro, and there was 
a stir and a glitter; a reflection of the war that in this last 

9 


10 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


year of the century was beating against the South Coast, 
and rousing stout hearts to meet the threat of invasion. 
A brace of officers climbed to the box-seat but travelled 
only as far as Chard, where orderlies met them with led 
horses and there was much parade and saluting. Rachel 
viewed all with young, curious eyes, and despite her sad 
thoughts was interested. She saw things that she had 
never seen before, and what with these stirring interludes 
and the common traffic of the highway with its unending 
stream of coaches and chaises, harvest wains and London 
wagons, and the hamlets that, strung along the road like 
a chain of beads, came so often and passed so quickly, 
the time went by. Before she was aware of it they were 
over Windwhistle Hill and descending with groaning 
brakes into Crewkerne. Here, before the Mermaid, they 
came to rest, the many-caped coachman flung down his 
whip, the travellers descended, the waiters cried, “Dinner, 
gentlemen, dinner.” 

Rachel, timid and strange, would fain have kept her seat. 
She had no appetite, and the value of money, that she was 
now to earn, pressed upon her. But she had to resist the 
clamour not only of the waiters but of her fellow-travellers. 
“God bless thee, my dear!” the fat man adjured her, 
“never miss a meal. There’s no lining keeps up the heart 
like beef and pudding! And the celery at this house is 
a treat!” So she had to move, but instead of entering 
the house she walked a little way down the street and in 
a quiet corner ate her sandwiches on which there fell a 
salt tear or two, as she thought of the loving hands that 
had packed them. But she reminded herself that she was 
now to play a stout part in the world and when she re- 
turned to her seat and the coach filled up, she showed a 
composed face. 

A young man in the farthest corner thought it a face 
worth staring at, and Rachel might have found his atten- 
tion enibarrassing, if she had not had more solid ground 
for annoyance. ‘The tradesman had taken his fill not only 


FARING FORTH II 


of the beef and pudding, but of the Mermaid’s strong ale. 
He was drowsy and every five minutes he fell over and 
crushed her out of sight in a manner as absurd as it was 
uncomfortable. Then the coach grew noisy as it grew 
crowded. ‘Two of the newcomers fell to wrangling over 
this talk of invasion, the one maintaining that it was all 
a hum, a flam, a trick of they government chaps to clap 
on new taxes and take more lads from the plough-tail, 
while, “Ay, I smoke your sort,” the other retorted with 
disdain. “But I’m thinking you'll sing to another tune 
when you’re burnt in your bed one of these dark nights.” 

“Tf my stacks be fired,’ the farmer replied with pon- 
derous certainty, “I’m bound ’twon’t be Bony nor they 
Frenchies, mister! More like some o’ your peacock- 
dressed, tearing, swearing yeomanry lads. Just kiss-the- 
maids they be! That’s what they be, drat *em !” 

The other turned up his eyes. “You’re a methodist, 
my man! That’s what it is, I see!” 

The farmer swelled till his face was purple. “A 
methodist!” he bawled. “I’d have you know, young man, 
T’m a church-warden! Church-warden of Weston-under- 
Panwood these seven years.” 

“Two pipes and a tabor!” his opponent muttered, shift- 
ing his ground unfairly. 

“And sung God save the King every Sunday of my life 
since His Majesty’s late illness—which the Lord knows 
what it was, but ’twas a mystery. And, damme, He will 
save him too, but ’twon’t be by any o’ your Joseph-coated 
henroost-robbing lads—a plague to honest men they be! 
But by Lord Nelson and Admiral Cornwallis as I pay my 
rent to! Ill answer for it, as long as oak swims, they'll 
never let no Frenchman come within sight o’ you, little 
man !” 

A third brawler burst in on this, and the dispute roused 
Rachel’s neighbour from his beery slumbers. He sat up, 
and, while the change freed the girl from bodily discom- 
fort, it only left her mind at greater liberty to dwell on 


12 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


the trials before her. She had a nervous dread of the 
change which she must make at Salisbury. Suppose she 
eould not get her trunk out in time! Or suppose, unac- 
ecustomed to the flurry of the coach office, she entered the 
wrong coach and travelled Heaven knew whither! Still, 
the change was a small matter after all, and doubtless she 
would compass it; but beyond it loomed, ever more near, 
things that filled her heart with dread. The arrival at 
the great house, her entrance—she saw herself so small 
and lonely a figure !—her reception by a crowd of servants. 
Then the first meal in strange surroundings, the intro- 
duction to her ladyship, to her pupil—she did not know 
at the prospect of which of these things her heart beat 
most painfully. And they were all coming nearer; with 
every mile, with every hour, they rose more tremendous 
before her. When the coach changed horses at Shaftes- 
bury she did not know whether she longed for the end, or 
felt suspense less intolerable. She only knew that she 
yearned with passion for the bedtime hour when these trials 
would be behind her and she might be alone with a little 
space in which to gather courage for the morrow. And 
still—for now they were away again—the coach swung in- 
exorably onward, uphill and downhill, and the men swore 
and wrangled, and the tradesman’s wife snored in the op- 
posite corner. 

A little waif going forth into a hard world! Her feet 
were cold, her throat was dry, she swallowed continually. 
Her eyes now reviewed the small parcels that she had with 
her, now scanned the passing scene lest the first houses of 
Salisbury should surprise her. Long before they sighted 
the graceful, soaring spire she fancied the city at hand; 
‘three times she collected her possessions and sat on thorns, 
wondering how she should make her way to the distant 
‘door from which so many burly knees divided her. 

But at last Salisbury came. They cantered along Fish- 
erton Street and over the bridge, swept through the Market 
Place and, turning right-handed into Catherine Street, 


FARING FORTH 13 


stopped, to the merry music of the bugle, before the White 
Hart. Rachel clutched her packets and got to her feet. 
But, alas, all were for alighting, and she was last. When 
she did emerge she found herself in a crowd, pushed this 
way and that and unregarded, and it was not until the 
coachman discovered her and flipped her half-crown into 
his pocket that she gained attention. With all his majesty,, 
he was a good-natured man with an ¢7e for females in dis- 
tress, and he spoke to the guard, and presently her trunk 
was hunted out and handed down. A stable-helper in a 
moleskin cap shouldered it. “Where away, miss?” he 
cried. He was in a hurry—everyone seemed to be in a 
hurry. 

“The Ringwood coach,’ she said. “It starts from 
here ?” 

The man grinned. “It do, miss—to-morrow morning!” 

Panic seized her. “Oh, but—I was told that it met this 
coach,” she stammered. She had foreseen nothing as bad 
as this. 

“Tt did—yesterday. It don’t to-day. Summer coach, 
d’you see, miss? *I'were took off the road yesterday.” 

She stood bewildered. People were pressing about her, 
cutlers’ apprentices offering their wares, others entering 
and leaving the yard; she had much ado not to be pushed 
into the not over-clean water channel flowing on the far- 
ther side of the way—she was such a light little thing 
anyone could thrust her aside. “But what am I to do?” 
she pleaded. “I must be at Ringwood this evening.” 

“You can post, 0’ course.” 

“Oh, dear, dear!” Posting was a terrible expense, she 
knew. “How far is it, please?” 

“T dunno, miss. You’d best ask in the yard.” 

She was ready to cry. She had received her bare fare 
from Salisbury to Ringwood, and she knew that to post 
would cost infinitely more. Faintly she asked how much 
it would be. 

But the man had another job in prospect. “You'd best. 


14 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


ask in the yard,” he said, and dumped her trunk down 
inside the archway. “There! ‘The master is there now. 
He'll tell you.” He hurried away. 

Her heart in her mouth, Rachel walked into the yard. 
A burly man was giving orders to a knot of helpers, who 
were running out the new team. The coachman, a tankard 
in his hand, stood at his elbow, a servant hung behind 
waiting for a word, in the passages on the left bells were 
Tinging and chambermaids hurrying, from the red- 
curtained windows on the same side faces looked out. 
Rachel, in an agony between shyness and impatience, was 
pausing, uncertain what to do, when the burly man’s eye 
fell on her. He broke off, and stepped towards her. 
“What for you, miss?” he asked. 

“T expected to meet the Ringwood coach here, 
plained. “Now I am told that it does not go.” 

“Quite right, miss.” 

“Then what am I to do?” 

“Well, you can either post or stay the night. There’s 
a coach at eleven in the morning.” 

“What will it cost to post?” she asked anxiously. 

“To Ringwood, miss?” 

“Yes, I am going to Queen’s Folly. It’s near Ringwood, 
I understand.” 

“Queen’s Folly!” The man’s manner changed a shade. 
“Well, it’s seventeen miles to Ringwood—the Folly’s seven 
miles farther. One-and-six out and ninepence in—call it 
two pounds, miss, to Ringwood.” ‘Then, seeing her dis- 
mayed face, “If expense is any matter, it will be cheaper 
to stay the night. The coach fare is a crown. But if 
you'll step into the coffee room I’ll come to you by-and-by.” 
He pointed to the door on the left of the yard. “You, 
Joe, shove the young lady’s trunk in the passage.” 

There seemed to be nothing else to do, and Rachel crept 
into the coffee room. Some travellers were swallowing a 
hasty meal at the table, but no one heeded her, and she 
slid into the darkest corner, and sat clutching her parcels 


»? she ex- 


FARING FORTH 15 


and wondering what she ought to do. If she posted she 
would have to spend two pounds out of a purse slenderly 
filled, and would arrive almost penniless. On the other 
hand, she was to be met at Ringwood, and if she stayed 
the night here what would happen? The dull room with 
its smell of pickles, the heavy sideboard, the smouldering 
fire supplied no answer. The travellers rose and trooped 
noisily out, and she was alone, but no nearer a solution. 
Before the landlord came she must make up her mind. 

It seemed that he was in no haste to come. She heard 
the coach start, and, fearing all things now, feared that 
she was forgotten. She moved to a window and looked 
into the yard to learn if he was still there. He was there, 
and so close to the window that instinctively she retreated 
behind the red curtain. He was talking to a tall man in 
a cocked hat and a shabby cloak worn over some sort of 
uniform: a plain, blackish-looking man with a long, thin 
nose and very keen eyes. She had but one glance at him, 
then he and the landlord passed out of sight, but an in- 
stant later, the door of the room being ajar, she heard their 
voices in the passage. 

“Tn half an hour,” the stranger said—and she thought 
his voice as harsh as his features. “And, Turpin, tell 
that d—d rascal Sam that he shall have his skinful of 
ale at the house. But if he starts drunk again he’ll wish 
himself triced up to the crosstrees in a gale of wind, for 
T’ll break every bone in his body!” 

“T’ll see he starts sober, Captain,” the other replied 
respectfully. “I suppose’—Turpin seemed to hesitate— 
“her ladyship’s not at the Folly?” 

“No, man. Why?” 

“There’s a young lady in the house that says she’s going 
there. Meant to go by the coach that was taken off 
yesterday.” 

“A young lady?” 

“So she told me, Captain.” 

“Then she lied, if she told you she was a young lady. 


16 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


One of the servants with a pretty face, that’s got on your 
blind side, man.” 

“Well, I don’t know.” The landlord seemed to doubt. 
“She looked a bit better than that to me. And I see all 
sorts, sir.” 

“Ay, but set a pretty face before you, and——” He 
broke off, and, in a different tone, and as if to himself, 
“No, it can’t be that! He’s not there, and, damme, he’s 
not come down to that yet. No!” Then, sharply he 
addressed Turpin, ‘““What’s she like, man? Gay?” 

“No, sir, as quiet asa mouse. ‘To tell the truth——”’ 

“Well?” 

“T made bold to think that, as you were going over, 
you might perhaps % 

“Take her with me?” The stranger laughed discord- 
antly. “You be hanged! I think I see myself! You 
take me for my lord, Turpin. No petticoats and no 
reefer’s tricks for me! I’m too old by many years. But 
there, I’ve a letter to write, and must get to the pot- 
hooks.” 

And, humming to himself in a tuneless voice: 








“Oh, Hood and Howe and Jervis 
Are masters of the main, 
Cornwallis sweeps the narrow seas 
And logs the weather vane,” 


he strode into the ~offee room, crossed the floor and seized 
the bell-rope. He pulled it violently, and instead of stand- 
ing to wait, as four men out of five would have done, fell 
at once to pacing between door and window. 


“And Duncan in his seventy-four, 
His Venerable seventy-four, 
From freezing Texel to the Nore 
Brings Mynheer to his knees. 


Here, John,” as the waiter hastened in, “you lazy devil, 
find me a quill and an inkhorn. And when you have done 


FARING FORTH 17 


that, bring me a dish of catlap—and move all this clut- 
ter!” thrusting forcibly aside half a dozen clattering plates. 
“Damme, man, the place is as dirty as a gunners’ mess!” 

“Won’t be a minute, sir!” John replied, and flew to obey 
at a pace very different from that at which he had attended 
on the chance travellers. 


CHAPTER III 
THE CAPTAIN 


THE Captain resumed his pacing—six short steps and a 
turn, six short steps and a turn. 


“But Hood and Howe and Jervis, 
Cornwallis, Camperdown, 

May step across to leeward 

And haul their pennants down. 

For Nelson’s on the weather deck, 

Lord Admiral Nelson walks the deck, 
Turns his blind eye to squall and wreck, 
Our Michael of the Seas.” 


He hummed this doggerel to the end as freely as if he had 
been alone. But Rachel, cowering in her shadowy corner, 
knew the precise moment when his eyes alighted on her, 
although he only betrayed the discovery by a single search- 
ing glance. He continued to pace to and fro until John 
returned and cleared a corner of the table. 

Rachel had heard all that he had said in the passage, 
and though she had not understood the whole, she had 
mettle enough to resent the tone in which he had spoken 
of her. She longed to escape before the horrid man 
addressed her, but he was between her and the door, and 
while she wavered he sat down to write. He seemed in his 
blackness—for he still wore his cloak—both ugly and for- 
midable, and she was not sure that he did not from time 
to time glance up and inspect her in the mirror before 
him. Suddenly, “How do you spell ‘bergamot’ ?” he shot 
out; “one ¢ or two?” 

dd Ob athe? 

The word sprang from her lips before she was aware, 

18 


THE) CAPTAIN. 19 


drawn from her by the thrust of the question. The next 
moment her cheeks burned and she looked at the door, 
but the distance between her and it seemed to have grown; 
and to reach the door she must pass by him. Meantime he 
coolly finished his letter, folded and directed it. When 
John entered with the tea, he stepped to the door and went 
out. 

But not beyond the passage. She heard him call 
AVarpin |?’ 

Apparently Turpin was at hand for, “Who the deuce 
is she?” the stranger asked, in a tone somewhat more 
subdued. 

“Well, I’m thinking, sir, she might be the young lady’s 
governess.” 

“I’m hanged if she is! Her ladyship was saying this 
morning that it was high time she got one. What are 
you doing about her?” 

“Well, sir, she must post or stay. She'll do whichever’s 
cheaper, I’m thinking.” 

“Umph! Well, d—n the girl! I'll speak to her.” 

If there had been two doors Rachel would have run out 
by the other—the man was becoming a terror to her. But 
before she could move a yard he was back again and this 
time he turned to her and looked her over as coolly as if 
she had been a limpet. A tremulous mouth, good eyes, 
a turned-up nose, he told himself; fair curls, a bonnet 
and tippet—she might be a governess after all—looked 
like it, but devilish young! 

“You’re going to Queen’s Folly?” he said. 

Rachel resented his interference, but after a moment’s 
hesitation she answered the question. “Yes,” she said. 

“Her ladyship is not there. You know that, I suppose?” 

me IN),”? 

“You did not know it?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you know it now. Do you still wish to go, young 
lady ?” 


20 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Yes.” She shot out the word. She was growing 
angry. What business had he to question her? 

But he had not done. “Why, if you please?” he asked. 
“What is your business there ?” 

Rachel went rather white, but her eyes gleamed resent- 
fully. “That is my business, sir,” she said. “I do not 
know what right you have to question me.” 

“Ho! ho! An angry robin, eh?” For a second a glint 
of something—sarcasm, humour, amusement—shone in his 
sharp eyes. “Well, it’s a little of my business too, ma’am. 
I am Lord Ellingham’s brother, and now you know that 
perhaps you won’t refuse to answer my question.” 

Poor Rachel’s plumes drooped. “I am the new gov- 
erness,” she said meekly. 

“The devil you are! Governess to whom, may I ask?” 

“To Lady Ann Dunstan.” There were tears in her 
eyes. The man was rude and stared at her so in- 
credulously. 

He seemed now to be surprised on his side. “To 
Ann?” he exclaimed. “And who signed you on, young 
woman ?” 

“Who—I don’t understand.” 

“Who engaged you?” impatiently. “Signed articles 
with you? That’s English I suppose.” 

“Lady Elisabeth—at Exeter,” Rachel said with dignity, 
and did not guess how violent was the retort that her 
frightened face and quivering little mouth curbed on his 
lips. 

Even as it was, “D—d old vixen!” he muttered. “Must 
she make mischief too!” 

For a moment he stood, pondering darkly. Then, 
“You’re but a little thing,” he said, measuring her with a 
disparaging eye. “Have you seen your pupil?” 

DN DA ALTE 

“Well, she’s pretty near as tall as you, and a sight 
broader in the beam! And a rare handful I can tell you, 
with as many tricks and turns as a sea-lawyer. You don’t 


THE CAPTAIN 21 


look to me one to bring her up with a short turn! Do 
you know what you'll do if you take my advice, young 
woman ?” 

“No!? Rachel spoke sharply. She was growing restive 
again. She was beginning to ask herself with spirit what 
this man who stood over her, frowning her down, had to 
do with it. He might be the uncle of her pupil, but 
“No!” she repeated. ) 

“Well you’d heave to and put about. That’s what you’d 
do. And look for another berth.” 

“T don’t see, sir, what you fe 

“Youd take the next coach back,” he continued. 
“That’s my advice. Do you take it, young lady. Or be- 
lieve me you'll find yourself in irons off a lee shore.” 

But Rachel was one of those who left to themselves are 
meek and yielding, but pushed to the wall react against 
force. or a space the man’s presence, his masterful tone 
and black looks had imposed on her; but now she asked 
herself what right he had to dictate to her, to bid her 
change her plans and abandon her prospects. And stiffly, 
with a little air of dignity, not ill assumed, “I shall do 
_ nothing of the kind,” she said. “I have been properly 
engaged, sir, and until my employer dis-discharges me”— 
her voice trembled, for, alas! her dignity was but skin- 
deep after all—“T shall carry out my plans and—and be 
guided only by those who have authority over me.” 

She expected an angry outburst and hardened herself 
to meet it. Instead a whimsical smile for a moment 
transformed the man’s harsh features. ‘“‘Lord!” he said, 
“what a cock-sparrow it is! I am to keep my own side 
of the deck, am I? Hands off, eh? But no! No, young 
lady,” calmly interposing himself as Rachel rose and made 
a move towards the door, “one moment. If you mean 
to go on, there’s more to be said.” 

Her little head was in the air. “I do not wish to hear 
it, sir,” she said. 

“But,” he rejoined, “‘you’ve got to hear it, damme if 








22 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


you haven’t! Lord, to listen to you, you might be Kitty 
herself. You’ve got to hear it. If this is not my busi- 
ness it’s anette to it. If you’re going on I must 
take you, I suppose.” 

“Oh no!” she cried, all her dignity dropping from her. 
“Tf you please, I would rather, far rather 

“Rather what? Shape your own course, eh? Go your 
own way? No, no, young woman, if you go on, you belong 
to my convoy and you'll obey orders and keep the line or 
you'll be whipped into it with a shot across your bows. 
Have you had any tea?” 

“No,” Rachel faltered. “I don’t—want any.” 

“Fiddlesticks!” He pointed to the tray. “There, it’s 
your job to pour out.” He stepped to the bell and pulled 
it with the violence with which he seemed to do every- 
thing. “Another cup!” he commanded. “And tell your 
master the young lady will go with me. Horses at the 
door in—” he consulted his watch, “in ten minutes! No!” 
addressing the girl in the same sharp tone, “fill for your- 
self! Petticoats first. No sugar for me.” 

She had to obey and until John returned he walked 
up and down, to all appearance as regardless of her as 
if she had not been present. He drank his tea, standing 
at the table, while she hid her hot face in her cup or gazed 
with fearful interest at the cocked hat that he had cast 
upon the table. With what strange things, what strange 
situations was her start in life bringing her into contact! 
With what unpleasant, impossible personages! If she 
must judge of the family by him, for what a lot was 
she cast, what a reception she must expect! And if her 
pupil was as turbulent and rude as he painted her, what 
difficulties lay before her! If he described Lady Ann as 
turbulent, what must she be! Rachel’s heart sank into 
her boots, and clearly she foresaw that her stay in her 
first situation would not be lengthy. 

Still from these horrors some short space still separated 
her. More dreadful loomed the two hours that she must 





THE CAPTAIN 23 


spend in the man’s company, and not only in his company 
but shut in with him in the narrow space of a postchaise, 
and conscious, every minute of the time, of his disapproval. 
She dreamt for a moment of surrender, dwelt on the pos- 
sibility of yielding. She tasted the joy of release alike 
from present misery and from future trials. She saw her- 
self in the night coach, returning to the dear home, the 
very prospect of which brought tears to her eyes. 

But Rachel had a clear head as well as a sturdy will 
and it needed but the briefest reflection to assure her 
that the return journey would not be the care-free jaunt 
that fancy had for a few seconds painted, but a weary 
nightmare of repentance and self-reproach. The return 
of the vanquished ! 

So, when the chaise came jingling down the yard— 
they saw it pass—and he said curtly, “Signal’s up, young 
woman! But it is not too late to change your mind. Still 
for going on, eh?”—which seemed to prove that he had 
observed her more closely than she supposed—she rose with 
a composed air. 

“Certainly, sir, if you please.” 

“Well,” gruffly, “I don’t please. But you’ve had your 
warning. Line ahead.” 

She went out before him. The landlord and a knot of 
servants were gathered to see them start and she had to 
run the gauntlet of all. The Captain said a word to Tur- 
pin that drew a smile, he stepped in and the door was 
closed. The chaise rumbled under the archway, turned 
before the dead wall of the Close with its bordering water- 
channel and swung away down Exeter Street. 

Rachel had had little to do with men, and had never 
been in such close contact with a man before, and she 
gazed out of the window in an agony of shyness. She 
watched the houses go by and apparently her companion 
did the same, for they were clear of the city, and were 
passing Longford Park wall before he gave a sign of life. 
Then he began again—but absently—to hum his old ditty, 


24 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Oh, Hood and Howe and Jervis 
Are masters of the main, 
Cornwallis sweeps the narrow seas 
And logs the weather vane.” 


He hummed it to the close. Then, if she might judge 
from the sound, for she did not dare to turn her head, 
he took out some papers, and for a while he busied himself 
with them. In the end he put them up again, and with 
his wonted abruptness, “This your first cruise?” 

re Vegi: 

“Umph! What’s your age, young lady?” 

She longed to snub him for his impertinence—he really 
was intolerable! But she had not the courage, and “Nine- 
teen,” she said meekly. 

“By gad, then, you’ve a nerve, ma’am, and just off 
the stocks. But look out for squalls, and north-easters 
too, by Jove! And don’t say you haven’t been warned !” 

She made no reply to this. She decided that he was 
bent on frightening her and she was stubbornly determined 
not to be frightened, or at any rate not to betray her 
fears. He began to troll his eternal chanty again, and 
presently out of sheer impatience she did a thing that she 
would have thought impossible, but the words were out 
before she was aware. “Why Michael?” she asked. 

She coloured with vexation the moment she had spoken, 
but it was too late. ‘Why Michael?” he repeated flatly. 
“Well, why not?” 

“Why not—” she was in for it now and must go on. 
“Why not St. George, or—or St. Patrick?” she stammered. 

“St. George for Merry England, eh? Come, you’ve 
heard of Nelson before, I suppose, young lady ?” 

“Of course!” she answered resentfully. 

“Ever heard where he was born?” 

“At—in Norfolk, at Burnham Thorpe!” She was in- 
dignant that he should suppose her so ignorant as not to 
know that. 


THE CAPTAIN 28 


“When ?” 

She had to acknowledge reluctantly that she did mot 
know. 

“And you call yourself a governess!” he retorted. 
“Why, there’s many a topman, that can’t tell big A from 
little B, that could teach you that. He was born on 
Michaelmas Day, Miss Wisdom. And so was another, 
of whom you may have heard by chance. Ever heard of 
Lord Clive?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, he was born on Michaelmas Day too! Michael’s 
sons both of *em and born with a sword in their fists in- 
stead of a silver spoon in their mouths! Lord, ma’am, 
and you didn’t know that! And ITll wager you don’t 
know on what day St. Vincent was fought ?” 

He was really a horrid man! But this time she did 
know the answer—by chance. “St. Valentine’s day,” she 
shot out. 

He chuckled openly. “Ay, that’s more to do with you. 
The women all remember that. The V. battle. Fought 
off St. Vincent’s on Valentine’s day, flag-ship the Victory, 
Commander-in-Chief, Earl St. Vincent, as he now is! 
And d—d well fought too, Tartar as he is, saving your 
presence. But I can tell you, ma’am, you'll have to be 
smarter than you are! If you don’t keep a good look-out, 
it will be Ann will be teaching you!” 

Rachel could have cried with mortification, but she was 
too nervous to retort, and satisfied with his triumph— 
which she felt to be as unfair as it was crotchety and 
absurd—the wretch fell to whistling to himself. 'The car- 
riage rolled on along the flat road near the clear-flowing 
Avon with its border of water-meadows, fringed on either 
hand, but at a distance, by low wooded heights. Soon 
they crossed the river at what she took to be Fording- 
bridge. The woods on the left began to rise more steeply 
against a greenish evening sky, and by the time they had 


26 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


swung round the church at Ringwood and traversed the 
village, leaving its long causeway and rustic wharves with 
their piles of timber away to the right, the day was closing 
in, twilight was upon them. They turned their backs on 
the meadows over which the river-mist was fast drawing 
a veil, and began to climb a winding sandy road that 
mounted in a mile or two to stretches of melancholy 
moorland, vast and bleak, dipping here and there, but not 
where their way traversed it, into narrow gorges, outlined 
for them by dark lines of tree tops. The evening wind 
blew cold across the waste, peewits wailed shrilly in the twi- 
light, Rachel shivered. Her mind sank under the weight 
of loneliness and depression that the scene suggested and 
that the strangeness of all that she saw redoubled. With 
the welcome and happy lights of home before her she must 
still have owned the influence of place and hour, of the 
barren treeless upland, the wailing birds, the growing dusk. 
But as it was, with all that she loved left behind her in 
another world—for indeed it seemed so to her—with no 
prospect before her more cheerful than that on which she 
gazed, no welcome to anticipate save one that filled her 
with nervous dread, it was as much, it was almost more 
than she could do, gripping one hand in the other, to keep 
back the sobs that in the presence of this man would be 
the last humiliation. 

That she did keep them back, lonely little soul, was to 
her credit—men have gone on forlorn hopes, and won 
medals and crosses at less cost! 

Suddenly they swerved off the road that ran like a pale 
ribbon across the moorland. They began to descend and 
about them solitary thorn-trees, gnarled and ghostly, — 
started up, breaking the waste. Presently they were driv- 
ing through dark woods, they passed between two stone 
pillars—gateless—they rolled smoothly along a grand ave- 
nue flanked by a black wall of trees set far back on either 
side. At length—for to her, shivering in her corner, the 
avenue seemed to be endless—the postboys cracked their 


THE CAPTAIN 27 


whips, the jaded horses mustered a canter, she saw be- 
fore her a long pile of building, in which a meagre light 
or two showed at one end. 

“Thank God, that’s over!” her companion muttered. 
“We are there!” He yawned as he stretched his long legs 
and prepared to alight. 


CHAPTER IV. 
AT QUEEN’s FOLLY 


Mrs. JEMMETT set down her breakfast cup on the round 
table and took a leisurely look at Rachel. She had looked 
at the girl “a many times” before, as she said later in the 
day. But her doubts remained unsolved. The house- 
keeper was a comfortable-looking woman who filled her 
bodice as efficiently as she filled her place, but she had 
considering eyes and a close-shut mouth which did not 
always let her thoughts escape. “Some is touchy, par- 
ticularly at the start,” she continued. “But I thought that 
you would be as well here, miss, until the family returns.” 

“T think it is very nice here,” Rachel replied. And in 
truth the housekeeper’s homely room, which looked on a 
plot of rough grass, cut off from the garden by a beech 
hedge, had seemed to her a very haven of rest on her ar- 
rival the evening before. “I should have been lonely up- 
stairs until,” she put in with a sudden remembrance of 
Dr. South and her mother’s caution, “the family returns.” 

“Well, so I thought. And,’ Mrs. Jemmett added can- 
didly, “it would have been a heap more trouble to wait on 
you upstairs and me short-handed. Indeed I’d fine work 
to get a bed aired at such short notice. And what her 
ladyship if 

“Yes?” Rachel said, for the housekeeper had paused. 

“Oh, nothing, miss. Only perhaps her ladyship may 
like to make her own arrangements when she comes.” 

“There’s no one here now then ?” 

“Only the Captain. He’s a dockyarding or what not, 
at Southampton, and goes and comes. He’s been to Lon- 

28 





AT QUEEN’S FOLLY 29 


don and goes to-morrow. The children come down on 
Monday and her ladyship follows Tuesday—that’s this day 
week. ‘To be sure, we shall have Mr. Girardot, Friday, and 
he’s like a smile in the house. He livens everybody up, 
I will say that, but don’t you lose your heart to him, miss,’ 
she said with a thin smile. 

Rachel winced. “Who is Mr. Girardot?” she asked. 

“The tutor, miss, and everybody’s favourite, except, may- 
be, the Captain’s. I don’t know as he does favour him, 
but there, there couldn’t be two more different, and the 
Captain would be no worse if he were a little more like 
him on the outside.” 

“That was Captain Dunstan who brought me yesterday ?” 

“To be sure, miss. Captain the Honourable George 
Dunstan, his lordship’s brother. 

“Then Lord Ellingham does not come with the family ?” 

“No, not at once. You’ve not,” she asked with an odd 
searching look at the girl, “met his lordship ?” 

eNO.” 

“Then—if I may ask, miss,—who made the arrange- 
ment ?” 

The same question! Rachel began to tire of it, to find 
something strange in it. But she answered it once more. 
“Lady Elisabeth who lives at Exeter.” 

“Ah 17? 

“T suppose—she is often here?” 

“No, miss, not often.” The housekeeper rubbed her 
nose thoughtfully. “Indeed I don’t know when she was 
here. The truth is, Lady Elisabeth and her ladyship don’t 
hit it off—not over well so to speak.” 

Well, that was good news at any rate. With Lady 
Elisabeth at a distance and the Captain leaving to-morrow, 
she might hope for better things. Rachel’s heart grew 
lighter, and when Mrs. Jemmett offered to conduct her to 
the schoolroom she rose with alacrity. 

It proved to be a small room on the second floor, and dull 
and shabby as became its purpose—what children’s room 


30 QUEEN ’S*FOLLY. 


in that age was other than dull, or was furnished with 
aught that had not seen its best days elsewhere? A door 
covered with red baize and closing with a spring shut it 
off, and Rachel’s bedroom with it; and from the long 
corridor, just outside this door, a narrow staircase ran 
down to a side entrance, which the housekeeper hinted that 
the governess was expected to use. “You'll live and have 
your meals here, miss,” she explained. “The young lady- 
ship’s room, and her maid’s, are underneath these. She'll 
take her tea with you I expect, and Lord Bodmin when he’s 
a mind.” 

Rachel had not yet savoured the monotony of a lonely 
life and she eyed her little domain with relief and even 
with satisfaction. Dull the room was, but its single win- 
dow looked on the green forest-glades that on that side ran 
up to the house, and below the window the sun was shining 
on stately oaks, here lifting themselves from a carpet of 
moss, there standing foot-deep in fern. A brace of forest 
ponies were feeding a hundred paces away, and wood- 
pigeons cooed in neighbouring branches. She gazed with 
pleasure on a scene so novel and did not stay to consider 
what its aspect might be when the trees dripped, bare and 
leafless, under a February sky. 

“Well, miss, I must go now,” the housekeeper continued. 
“And you'd best learn your way about. The Captain is 
out with his gun and you'll be free to go where you please. 
When the family is back it will be another thing.” 

Rachel availed herself of the offer, and before she de- 
scended peeped into the rooms on the upper floors, wonder- 
ing at their number, at the size of some and the shrouded 
splendour of others—of one in particular, that panelled in 
blue silk and furnished with gilt-legged chairs and tables, 
strewn with bibelots and framed work, she judged to be 
Lady Ellingham’s boudoir. The grand staircase flanked 
by a descending line of tall grim portraits, of ladies 
caressing dogs, and officers grasping sword-hilts, struck her 
with awe, which the entrance hall, with its stags’ heads 


AT QUEEN’S FOLLY 31 


and its old armour, did not lessen. Pushing a heavy 
mahogany door she found herself in a vast dining-room and 
here were more portraits; gentlemen in blue with collar- 
less coats, and ladies in white with tuckers that, it seemed 
to her, might have been higher. Beyond this she entered, 
feeling all the time as if she were watched, a sombre library 
where walls of dull quartos and folios looked down on 
the antics of a monstrous faun that held the middle of the 
floor and seemed to be capering for the amusement of the 
white marble Venuses that lurked each in her corner—a 
silent tomb-like room, the legacy she guessed of a past 
generation. 

In one of the great sheeted reception rooms the house- 
keeper found her and with the air of one conferring a 
favour twitched the linen cover from a glass cabinet. 
“There, miss,” she said with pride, “there’s the gold ink- 
stand as the Queen gave her ladyship when she finished 
her waiting, and the gold needle-case as the Princess Royal 
gave her, and the miniature as the Queen gave her on her 
birthday. She married out of her waiting—very young 
she was, and maybe she’d ha’ been wiser if she’d waited 
until fs 

“Yes?” Rachel said, for Mrs. Jemmett’s voice had 
trickled discreetly into silence. 

The housekeeper coughed. “Well, she was young to 
marry,” she said. And covering the cabinet, she presently 
went away, murmuring something about her work. 

Feeling her insignificance in the spacious rooms, Rachel 
wandered out and viewed the long white front of the 
house, embayed in the middle where the entrance looked on 
a semi-circular space framing two patches of lawn and 
enclosed by an ironwork railing, gilt in parts and pierced 
by three grand entrances. Each of these opened on a sep- 
arate avenue that, running through the forest, presented to 
the eye a solemn vista narrowing till it reached the sky- 
line. 

Rachel liked that side least. Even on a bright day its 





32 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


gloomy magnificence oppressed her. It was a relief to find 
her way round the house to the gardens in the rear and 
so by an iron gate to the open glades where the cawing of 
rooks, the hum of bees and the chir of grasshoppers, re- 
joicing in the warmth, gave life to the scene. 

It did not occur to her as she wandered about, grateful 
for this unlooked-for respite, that she was matter for dis- 
cussion. But in the housekeeper’s room a good deal was 
being said about her by Mrs. Jemmett and Bowles the but- 
ler. Bowles was a widower liying in his own cottage and 
at present pleasantly off duty. The housekeeper rubbed 
her nose. “To look at her,” she opined, “butter wouldn’t 
melt in her mouth, but what she knows and what she don’t 
know passes me. A little slip of a girl, you’d think the 
mother’s milk wasn’t dry on her lips. I don’t know as 
we've a right to suspect his lordship, for it’s not like him, 
wild as he is! But with my lady knowing no more of her 
coming than the babe unborn, I do say it is queer.” 

“But if she’s not good-looking, Mrs. J.?” 

“Vd not say that, Bowles. Handsome she’s not, but 
there’s a look in her eyes that maybe’d fetch a man that 
had a taste that way, and her nose tilts in a taking sort. 
And though she’s on the small side she’s a pretty shape 
what there is of her.” 

“T like *em plump myself,” Bowles said with an apprais- 
ing eye on the lady’s ample bodice. “Give me a woman 
with something to her, ma’am.” 

“Well,” the housekeeper answered impartially, “that’s as 
may be, Bowles. And she carries her head well, meek as 
she is—and meek she is to all appearing. I’m sure I don’t 
know what to think. And it’s my belief as the Captain’s 
puzzled too, he was that short with her at the door. He 
asked me straight how long I had known she was coming 
and black he looked when I said that she had written her- 
self, and said it was by Lady Elisabeth’s direction.” 

“T suppose the old lady did engage her ?” 

“And little it will help her! Why, if that be all it will 


AT QUEEN’S FOLLY 33 


set my lady against her as never was. The old lady has 
always taken my lord’s side, and would put her hand in 
the fire for him. If all be true one hears, she was a gay 
piece herself in her time and not over particular.” 

Bowles nodded. “And what do you think, Mrs. Jem- 
mett, ma’am, her ladyship will do?” 

“Ah!” and the housekeeper gave the word its full weight, 
“T wish I knew, Bowles. She may pack her off with a flea 
in her ear—and that’s most likely I’m thinking. And 
again—she mayn’t. Her ladyship is that proud.” 

“Have you written to the Square?” 

“No, and I’m not going to.” 

“Perhaps that’d be safest.” 

“Safest and best. You may spit on your fingers but 
red-hot is red-hot and best left alone. But whether her 
Jadyship takes it rough or not, the girl will not be here 
long. Lady Ann will see to that. She’s a monkey for 
tricks and a terror in her tantrums—and that’s most 
times !” 

“Spoiled, ma’am.” 

“You never said a truer word, and her mother’s to thank 
for it. I don’t know that anyone can manage her if it’s 
not the Captain.” 

“Mr. Girardot?” 

“Ay, man, when he goes her way. But that’s all, only 
he’s clever enough to hide it, and so my lady thinks the 
world of him. I’ve an eye and he’s glass to me. He don’t 
take me in with his fine words and his curly hair. But 
mark me, whether this is one of my lord’s games or no, I’m 
no true prophet if Miss is here this day fortnight. My 
lady puts up with a lot as I wouldn’t stand, but if she puts 
up with this I’m mistaken.” 

Meanwhile Rachel, little suspecting the interest that she 
was arousing, was arranging her scanty possessions. She 
found a few dogs-eared lesson-books in a corner, and had 
already made herself familiar with the involved hieroglyph- 
ics which she took to stand for Ann Dunstan. What she 


34 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


had heard of her charge would have alarmed her more 
seriously if she had not decided that it was Captain Dun- 
stan’s design to frighten her, and if she had not made up 
her mind not to be frightened. Her spirits, rebounding 
from the depression of the previous day, soared high; she 
had no immediate trial to fear, and she carolled as she 
moved to and fro, setting things in order with the neat- 
ness that was a habit. No one came near her, silence 
reigned in that secluded wing, she was free to try on her 
caps and even the white muslin if she pleased. It was a 
blessed reprieve, and for the time she asked for nothing 
better. 

From her bedroom window which looked to the front, 
she saw the Captain return, gun on shoulder, a keeper at- 
tending him; and for a moment she had a spasm of alarm, 
thinking that he might send for her and repeat his hateful 
advice. But nothing happened and she sat down to write 
to her mother, her relief and satisfaction finding place in 
her letter. All that she described, the housekeeper’s kind- 
ness, the house, the forest, wore rose-colour; and to do her 
justice they had been almost as warmly coloured had the 
reality proved worse. She said little of Captain Dunstan 
—he had happened on her in a fortunate moment and 
saved her the cost of posting—a typical seaman, she added, 
rather brusque and rough. It was all read at the breakfast 
table at the cottage two days later, and laughed over and 
cried over and read again and again. 

“Thank God,” Mrs. South sighed, “she is safely there 
and I do think comfortable. I only hope her ladyship will 
be satisfied with her.” 

“Oh, she’s sure to be, but I wish she’d said more about 
the Captain. What fun she must have had with him. 
I’m sure he’d think her pretty.” 

“My dear Ruth, I wish you would not be so foolish. If 
Rachel were as feather-headed as you, I should not know 
what to think.” 


CHAPTER V 
A VERY PLEASANT HELP 


RACHEL was busy in the schoolroom three days later. The 
first newness of the position had worn off, she had seen and 
spoken to none but servants, and she was beginning to feel 
home-sick. There is a dullness, mild sister to suspense, 
that at once desires and dreads a change; and she was suf- 
fering from this when she heard the baize door, which 
squeaked on its hinges, give its signal. The door was her 
boundary, whoever passed it must have business with her, 
and she looked up, startled. She heard the thud as it 
closed, an impetuous step came down the passage, a hand 
knocked smartly. She was mustering courage to say 
“Come in!” when without waiting for her bidding, a tall 
young man, whose black garb set off his slender shape, 
stood on the threshold. He paused a moment, smiling 
and taking in the scene, the small figure seated at the table, 
the timid surprised face raised to his. Then with an 
exaggerated air he clapped his hat to his breast and bowed. 
Rachel rose, curtsying. 

“And how is the Queen of the Blue Stockings ?” he cried 
in a most musical voice. “My charming ally in the service 
of the Muses? Of Cho! Of Melpomene! Of the divine 
Urania? The tamer of the wild filly of the Forest! Ah! 
Deep, I see, in study which I have grossly interrupted ! 
Engaged in—Lord, now, what is she engaged in?” And 
coolly, before Rachel, taken by surprise could interpose, he 
lifted from the table the paper on which she had been em- 
ployed. “Ten o’clock,” he read, his eyes dancing with fun, 
“French dictation—I only wish you may get her, ma’am, 
as early! KHleven o’clock, Geography and the use of the 

35 


36 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Globes—have a care there, I beg you, for Ann knows all of 
that that her uncle can teach her, and I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised if she can take an observation and correct a 
reckoning as well as Urania herself! Twelve to twelve- 
thirt ‘ 

“Oh please, please!” Rachel cried, blushing to the roots 
of her hair, and, had she known it, presenting the prettiest 
picture of confusion. “It was not meant, sir,—indeed, it 
was not meant % 

“For vulgar eyes?” He raised it calmly out of her 
reach. “Heaven forbid that such should lhght upon it! 
Twelve to twelve-thirty, reading from Dr. Johnson and the 
use of the Dictionary—why, in heaven’s name, ma’am, who 
is to turn over those monstrous quartos? Not those little 
hands, I swear! But there!” he continued with a sudden 
change to the most sympathetic gravity as Rachel stood 
gazing at him in an agony of shyness, “I let my spirits run 
away with me. I displease you. There, ma’am,” laying 
down the paper, “you see I am all obedient. Yet I will 
wager,” he said with a moderate return to his rallying man- 
ner, “that I have learned one thing about you. You have 
no brothers.” 

“No,” she faltered. 

“For if you had you would have made a fight for your 
paper. But you are no tomboy. No, I see you are not. 
And now,” he went on with gravity—and the man’s good 
looks were so astonishing that they positively dazzled her— 
“let me introduce myself. J am Mr. Girardot, and for a 
time, Miss South, it will be our lot to inhabit the same 
house, to share the same solitude, to tread the same back- 
stairs, to meet the same troubles—troubles of which, be- 
lieve me, ma’am, you have but a faint notion as yet. It 
may be in the power of one of us’—this he said with a 
solicitous smile—‘“to help the other. It follows that we 
should be acquainted; and to that end, may I,” he said 
with a courteous gesture, “invite you to resume your chair 
of office? You permit?” 








A VERY PLEASANT HELP 37 


Poor Rachel had never in all her life felt so uncertain 
of herself. She had had no experience of men, and to be 
thus addressed in a manner which she did not know 
whether to take for jest or earnest, covered her with a con- 
fusion of which she was the more painfully sensible as the 
gentleman was completely at his ease. Tongue-tied and 
conscious of her gaucherie, she resumed her seat. 

Probably he saw that he had produced the effect that he 
desired, for again he changed his manner, and now he was 
all softness and humility. “You say nothing?” he re- 
sumed. “I broke in on you with too little ceremony! 
With too great precipitation! And you cannot forgive 
me? But I own my fault; it is characteristic of me. 
Where my interest is engaged I let my spirits, which are 
perhaps too little bridled, carry me beyond bounds. But 
not,” he added with a charming smile, “I trust, beyond 
forgiveness ?” 

“You took me by surprise, sir,’ Rachel said with an 
effort. 

“Still you will pardon me, will you not?” 

“Oh, yes.” She was still in a state of the most dread- 
ful perplexity. She was sure, she was nearly sure that he 
was playing with her, and, whether that were so or no, the 
intrusion of the male element in a form so disturbing was 
the last thing for which she was prepared. She longed for 
him to go, but he showed no intention of going. He 
settled himself comfortably on the faded red cushion that 
covered the window seat, and she was distressingly con- 
scious that the light fell on her face. 

“You have had—but you cannot have had at your age— 
a long experience of teaching?” 

“T have had none.” 

“And you have not seen your pupil?” 

SEN Oi? 

“Umph! Then I am afraid that you are unaware of 
the difficulties of your task? Unconscious of the troubles 
before you? Ann is a monkey, ma’am; wilful, violent, un- 


38 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


tamed; in her worst fits malign, and at her best,” his eyes 
shone as he piled phrase on phrase and saw her lengthen- 
ing face, “a sackful of tricks! A very imp of the devil! 
Her mother, a sensible woman, but weak where she is in 
question, has spoiled her @ merveille. Now, ma’am,” he 
continued, leaning forward with interest. “J crave your 
confidence. I am anxious to know how you will deal with 
her.” 

“T shall do my best,” Rachel said. 

“But how? How, dear lady? For that is the question. 
If you have not experience, still I am sure—I read it in 
your face—that you have already decided on your course ; 
that you have that instinct, that flair that at once suggests 
a treatment.” 

“T must see her before I can decide,” Rachel said. She 
had not only no answer ready, but she had a horrid suspi- 
cion that he was still playing on her inexperience. 

“But how? How, ma’am ?” he insisted, refusing to take 
her answer. ‘Will you reason with her? Or fondle her? 
Or whip her? But I see,” as Rachel, now almost offended 
by his persistence, showed her feeling in her eyes, “you re- 
fuse to confide in me. You do not think me worthy of 
confidence. You distrust me. You are proud! You feel 
that you can rely so confidently on your tact, your gentle- 
ness—I read it in your eyes—your powers, that you need 
no hints! That the aid of a friend, the willing aid, is of 
no importance, ma’am ?” 

“Oh, no, no!” Rachel cried, driven to the wall. “Be- 
lieve me I shall be thankful for help, sir. I shall be thank- 
ful for any advice that you can give me.” 

“But I have pressed too much?” he replied, drawing 
back with an injured air. Which, indeed, was exactly 
what Rachel, puzzled and perplexed, was feeling. “I have 
extorted but an unwilling consent! You feel that you can 
stand alone, that those little hands are strong enough to 
deal with any trouble that awaits them? I was right, you 
are proud.» Too proud, too self-reliant, ma’am, and I can 


A VERY PLEASANT HELP 39 


believe it, to need assistance. Very good!” He made a 
show of rising. “I shall watch the result with interest. 
My good-will you will have, though you will not confide in 
me.” 

He had all the air of an offended man, and Rachel, who 
was beginning to believe in his protestations, surrendered. 
“But indeed, indeed,” she said eagerly, “you misunderstand 
me, sir. You misunderstand me strangely. I have no 
experience, and—and if out of yours, sir, you can suggest 
anything helpful, I shall be grateful.” 

But this was not enough for the odd man before her. 

“You accept, but you accept unwillingly,” he rejoined, 
“T say again, you are proud.” 

“T am nothing of the kind.” 

“Nay, I read it in your eyes. They are speaking eyes. 
They are clear as crystal and betray your thoughts. You 
are saying, ‘This man domineers and I will not be domi- 
neered over.’ ” 

But Rachel was not without perception. “Perhaps you 
read my mind by your own, sir,” she said. 

“What—wit? Wit as well as—”’ he bowed, his eyes 
laughing. “But I will not offend you by speaking too 
plainly. Then to the point, ma’am, which is—Ann? 
Well, somewhere in that impish child’s heart is a streak of 
gold, and I have found that streak. I have been happy 
enough to tap that softer vein. Within lmits I can in- 
fluence, I can even control her.” 

Rachel could believe it. Innocent as she was, she could 
believe that with his looks, his smile, his eyes he could in- 
fluence anything of the female sort, even a girl twelve 
years old. She looked at him expectant. He seemed to be 
waiting for her to speak. “And, sir?” she said doubt- 
fully. 

“I am willing to use that—shall [say that influence ?— 
in Miss South’s favour. Always supposing,’ he condi- 
tioned with a whimsical look, “that she is not proud. Of 
course if you still feel that you can, if you prefer to stand 


40 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


alone—but there,’ laughing, “I make no conditions. 
Only I hate proud people.” : 

Rachel suffered a fresh attack of shyness. “I have noth- 
ing of which to be proud,” she said. “And I am much 
obliged to you.” 

“Then,” he replied, rising, “I am forgiven for my per- 
sistence? I shall sometimes be welcome here? I shall 
find here,” he added with feeling, “that welcome, that sem- 
blance of home which is to be found nowhere else in this 
great house ?” 

Rachel, her face warm, she could not tell why, murmured 
some words of thanks. He listened with attention, seemed 
to hear her with approbation. Finally, turning to the win- 
dow, he said something of the solitude of the house, of the 
life led in it, of the lack of society, congenial society, of 
the isolation of their common position. He had laid 
aside his ambiguous manner, he spoke with propriety—and 
with every word he rose in Rachel’s opinion. 

Presently, in a serious tone, ““You know, I suppose, that 
all is not well between Lord Ellingham and our dear lady? 
I break no confidence in telling you that. It is no secret 
and you must soon learn it. The faults in my opinion, 
but I may be partial, are on one side, the merits, the con- 
spicuous merits, on the other. Ah, you start—you think 
and perhaps you are right,” he said this with winning 
gentleness, “that I should not prepossess you? Perhaps 
you are right—I value your good opinion and must not 
risk it. Ina house that is so divided, so distracted, a house 
in which you and I stand isolated, may I’—he held out his 
hand and as she nervously placed hers in it he bowed low— 
“may I go with the feeling that I have made a new 
friend ?” 

“You are very kind,” she said. She was at once moved 
and embarrassed. | 

“Kind ?” he answered sadly—and he seemed to be a dif- 
ferent man from the one who had broken in upon her so 
turbulently. “Well, it is something. For alas, there is 


A VERY PLEASANT HELP 41 


little kindness here. I thank you. I thank you. Until 
we meet again, count, ma’am, upon the best offices that I 
can do you.” Then, turning abruptly when his hand was 
already on the door, “We are friends?” he said, with a 
sweetness that it was impossible to resist. “I have not 
flattered myself? I have not mistaken that?” 

“T trust we shall be,” Rachel murmured. 

“Thank God!” he ejaculated. And with that he passed 
out and closed the door behind him. It was not the first 
time that he had made that exit with those words. 

As he passed, a slender graceful figure, down the broad 
stairway, he smiled at his thoughts. “Dear innocent 
little thing!” he reflected. “It is cruel to tease her, but 
who could resist the temptation? She is hke a mountain 
pool, one moment all light and colour, the next a rippling 
shadow. That tremulous mouth, those limpid eyes, I must 
see more of them, I must see them brighten when I come 
and grow dull when I go! But dear innocent, not to 
harm her! No, no! A slight tendresse—I owe that to 
myself and it will educate her, and amuse me when my 
lady is not here.” 

Above stairs the squeak of the baize door had left 
Rachel at liberty to return to her time-table. But she was 
in no mood to return to it. Her cheeks were hot, her mind 
in a whirl, she could not apply herself. She must be moy- 
ing, be shutting this and opening that, be rising to her 
feet as soon as she had seated herself. And this restless- 
ness? It was all Lady Ann, she told herself; Lady Ann 
and the sad account of her pupil that she had heard, and 
the trying prospect that it presented. It was all Ann; 
how was she to deal with her? How manage her? It was 
a most trying, grave, important problem. No wonder that 
the consideration of it unsettled her. 

But had she been frank with herself she must have ad- 
mitted that it was not the thing that had been told, it 
was the teller that disturbed her. It was the interview, so 
odd and vivid, the looks, the tones, the solicitude expressed 


42 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


and the friendship offered that left her unquiet; that quick- 
ened her pulses and troubled her senses, that compelled her 
to open the window and sweep back the ringlets that would 
fall over her face. It was the man. It was the impact 
of a new, ambiguous, perplexing force that drove her 
thoughts out of their placid channel, and hurried them on 
in flood. 

It had been so odd an interview! It had thrust upon 
her notice a character so novel—and almost any man at 
close quarters had been novel to Rachel! He had taken a 
kind of possession of her, had teased and puzzled and all 
but offended her. He had been at one time utterly un- 
reasonable, and then in a moment he had shown himself 
so different, so kind, so gentle. He had at once tormented 
and soothed and flattered her! 

She decided at last, when time and reflection had re- 
stored her self-possession, that men in this new world must 
be like that. That it was only her youth and inexperience 
that found him strange and that she must accustom her- 
self. She must harden herself. 

But one thing was certain, though she did not analyse 
its cause, and that was that the things about her, even the 
dull lesson-books and the ink-stained table now wore an- 
other and a brighter aspect. The breath of young life,, 
of the unexpected, of change and adventure had moved on 
the face of them and enlivened them. As she gazed from 
the window and her eyes followed the cloud-shadows that 
travelled the glades and the wind that in its passage bent 
the meek heads of the ferns, as she drank in with her ears 
the cooing of the ring-doves, she found a new beauty in the 
scene, a fairer radiance in the sunshine, a deeper note in 
the forest peace. 

She was so thankful, so very thankful that in this 
strange place she had found a friend. 


CHAPTER VI 
In TROUBLE 


Lapy ELLINGHAM was after all to return with the children, 
and Rachel had seldom spent more unpleasant hours than 
those which on the Monday preceded their arrival. She 
had seen no more of the smiling tutor, and the spell that 
he had momentarily cast over her had lost some of its 
power, while the prospect that he had disclosed remained 
to daunt her, and to daunt her the more as it opened more 
nearly before her. She felt, as she watched the slow prog- 
ress of the clock and found herself unable to apply her 
mind to anything, that she had never before known what 
suspense was. 

To her shyness and inexperience it had been no small 
ordeal to meet her employer and her pupil, had Lady Ann 
been an ordinary child. But after what she had heard of 
her stubborn temper and of Lady Ellingham’s predilection 
for her, the plunge troubled the girl exceedingly. And 
she had to contemplate it in solitude. She had not even 
Mrs. Jemmett for company. From the time of Mr. 
Girardot’s arrival the housekeeper had thought proper to 
serve the governess upstairs; and perhaps this was as well, 
for the house was in confusion below, the servants, their 
number mysteriously augmented, were everywhere, fires 
were lighting, beds were airing, and the grand suite that 
had not seen the light for weeks was being unshrouded. 
There were strange faces on the stairs and a new cook in 
the kitchen. 

But all this, and the stir and bustle that penetrated by 
fits to the schoolroom, did but serve to accentuate Rachel’s 
isolation, and leave her at greater liberty to torment her- 

43 


44 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


self. She could not read, she could no more sew than fly. 
She passed restlessly between schoolroom and bedroom 
and an hour before the earliest moment at which the 
travellers could appear, had stationed herself at the win- 
dow that looked to the front. 

Of course they were late, and it seemed to her, search- 
ing the long avenue to catch the first floating feather, the 
first token of their approach, that they would never come. 
The sun sank until it gilded only the crests of the forest. 
The three drives sank into sombre shadow. The stable 
clock tolled seven. Then when she had for a few seconds 
averted her eyes, they came. A postchaise led the way, an 
open travelling carriage with four horses and an outrider 
followed, a fourgon with servants and luggage brought up 
the rear. Rachel watched their oncoming with a sinking 
heart, and before the postchaise even reached the house she 
got a startling intimation of what she might expect. Out 
of it leaped a big band-box, that bounded and rolled across 
the sward. A second band-box followed, then a parcel, 
which amid shrieks of childish laughter, burst open as it 
fell. Still the postchaise rolled on, swept round to the en- 
trance, drew up. 

Out of it tumbled a boy and after him a girl, a tumult 
of scarlet cloth and flying black hair. She fell upon the 
boy, pummelling him with one hand, while with the other 
she beat him about the head with a velvet jockey cap. The 
boy shielding his head with his arms fled whooping into 
the house, the girl followed, while the chaise moving on 
towards the stables, gave Rachel a glimpse of two scandal- 
ised women. 

The sight was not reassuring. But the Countess was 
still to come. Rachel watched the travelling carriage 
draw up, and watched the servants gather about it. She 
saw Lady Ellingham alight—a dark, handsome woman, 
still and pale, in a drab travelling cloak with green facings 
and a black bonnet with a single green feather. She had 
a dog in her arms, but Rachel stayed to see no more. As 


IN TROUBLE 45 


the carriage drew on, she took a last glance at the mirror, 
saw that her cap was straight and her hair smooth, and 
stole back to the schoolroom. She did not know whether 
the unruly children or the stately mother alarmed her the 
more. 

She had barely seated herself at the table, with some 
dim notion of being found at her post, when the squeak 
of the baize door, followed by a rush of noisy feet and 
riotous voices prepared her for the worst. The school- 
room door was flung wide and the children swept in, the 
boy leading. He saw Rachel and stood transfixed and 
staring, heedless of the blows that the girl continued to 
rain upon him. 

“By gum!” he said. 

The girl dropped her hands, tossed her black mane from 
her flushed face and stared—she too, and insolently. 
“Who are you?” she cried. 

Rachel rose, outwardly composed. “You are Lady 
Ann ?” she said. 

“Golly, George, I know,” the girl exclaimed. ‘“She’s the 
new sewing-maid. Here, you,” addressing Rachel rudely, 
“you've no business here, impudence! Get out, do you 
hear? Get out!” 

“This is the schoolroom,” the boy explained more 
gently. 

Rachel gathered her forces. “Yes,” she said calmly. “I 
know. I am not the new sewing-maid. I am your new 
governess, Lady Ann.” 

The girl scowled. “You are what?” she cried furiously. 

“Your new governess.” 

“By gum!” the boy exclaimed again. And whistling 
shrilly he stared his hardest. 

But, “It’s a lie!” the girl retorted, stamping her foot. 
She was all black; black angry eyes, black brows, a torrent 
of black hair. She was cast in a large mould and tall for 
her years. “You’re a devil! A devil! And you'll have 
to get out of this and quick too! This is my room!” 


46 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


Rachel ignored her. She looked at the boy. “You are 
Lord Bodmin?” she said. 

“Don’t answer her!” the girl ordered. But the boy 
nodded. 

“Perhaps you will be good enough to tell her ladyship 
when you see her that I am here—Miss South—and will 
wait upon her when she desires to see me.” 

The girl was furious, was perhaps alarmed—she wanted 
no governess. “You'll go out!” she persisted. 

“No,” Rachel said firmly. 

The girl was about to retort when the boy seized her and 
dragged her away. “Oh, rats!” he said. “Come along, 
sis! Let’s go and rout out old Girry! And we are to have 
supper with mother.” 

“Tt’s some dirty trick!” the girl stormed. She flung a 
last “You devil!” at Rachel and made a hideous face, but 
allowed herself to be hauled away. That, however, was not 
the last of them. The door had scarcely slammed behind 
them when it was flung open and the velvet cap flew into 
the room. It went wide of Rachel and broke the glass of 
a picture. 

“Oh!” Rachel cried. Her knees were shaking under her 
and she had much ado not to burst into tears. “What a 
child! What a pupil! How can I ever manage her? 
And, oh, why, why did I come?” - 

And for a while she gave way, her elbows on the table, 
her face hidden in her hands. Her loneliness and the 
child’s cruel lack of feeling overcame her. But her tears 
were almost as much the offspring of anger as of pain, and 
anger dried them quickly. 

Which was fortunate, for she had not been alone ten min- 
utes before she heard the baize door open, a measured step 
trod the passage and a perfunctory knock heralded Mrs. 
Jemmett. “You are to go to her ladyship, if you please, 
miss,” she said. 

“At once?” 

“Yes, miss, if you please.” The woman’s face was 


IN TROUBLE 47 


grave, and had Rachel looked closely at her she might have 
read compassion in her eyes. 

“Very well.” But conscious of her tear-stained face, “I 
will just smooth my hair,” she added. ‘Where is her lady- 
ship ?” 

“J am to take you down, miss.” And the housekeeper 
waited while the girl, crossing hastily to her bedroom, 
sponged away the tell-tale traces. They went down the 
grand staircase in silence, Rachel gathering her forces. 

Bowles was standing at the door of the Countess’s sitting- 
room. He opened it and Rachel, quaking but resolved, 
went in. 

It was clear that Lady Ellingham had lost no time in 
interviewing her, for although an Argand lamp shed a soft 
glow on the table on which it stood, the gold-fringed cur- 
tains had not been drawn and through the tall windows the 
trees showed dark masses against a pale sky. Rachel was 
aware of this, and later remembered it, but at the moment 
she saw only the woman in whose hands her fate lay, and 
whose hostility the very air of the room betrayed to her. 
She recognised that Lady Ellingham was strikingly beau- 
tiful, tall, erect, dark—and incredibly cold. Pride could 
not have harboured in a fairer form, and as with eyes a 
little narrowed she gazed at the girl, pride seemed to 
emanate from her. 

And yet—and yet Rachel fancied that she perceived ever 
so slight a change in that searching gaze; as if my lady 
had prepared herself for something and did not see pre- 
cisely what she had expected to see. She stayed the girl 
by a gesture before she had advanced more than a pace 
into the room. “Be good enough,” she said, “to tell me 
your name.” 

Astonished, Rachel steadied her voice and told her. 

“Who sent you here?” The question came sharp, un- 
compromising. | 

Still more amazed and stammering a little, “Lady 
Elisabeth Dunstan,” Rachel answered. 


48 QUEEN’S FOLLY, 


“How did you know her?” ‘There was suspicion as well 
as hostility in the tone. 

“T was named to her by the Dean of Exeter.” 

For a moment Lady Ellingham seemed in her turn to 
be a little surprised. ‘You live near Exeter?” she said. 

“Yes, with my mother.” Rachel was quick-witted, and 
though she was far from guessing all that was in my lady’s 
mind—or her face would have burned indeed—she was be- 
ginning to understand why she had been summoned in such 
haste. 

“Have you met any other members of the family—he- 
sides Lady Elisabeth?” The Countess’s gaze narrowed as 
she put the question. 

“Only Captain Dunstan, whom I met by accident at 
Salisbury.” 

“You have met no others of the family?” my lady per- 
sisted. “Not—not Lord Ellingham, or—or—you are 
sure ?”” 

“No, no one,” Rachel repeated steadfastly. She was be- 
ginning to breathe again, though she knew now that there 
was trouble before her—dreadful, dreadful trouble. 

“And you say that Lady Elisabeth engaged you?” 

“She did—most clearly.” The girl was determined that 
there should be no doubt about that. She saw the impor- 
tance of it. 

A pause. “You have had then, of course—what ex- 
perience have you had—of teaching ?” 

Rachel winced. “None,” she faltered. 

Lady Ellingham’s eyebrows went up. “You should not 
have undertaken such a position—without more informa- 
tion,” she said austerely. “Have you seen Lady Ann? 
Do you think you could control her or manage her? 
You?” ‘There crept into her ladyship’s tone, and for the 
first time, a note of the human. “Why, you are a little 
thing. How old are you?” 

“Nineteen,” Rachel confessed with a tragic face. She 


IN TROUBLE 40) 


already foresaw the end of the interview—saw herself dis- 
missed, disbanded, packed home with ignominy. 

“You don’t look it! You look a mere child! I sup- 
pose you have never been out of Devonshire before?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“And are a clergyman’s daughter, you say.” 

Sivam.? 

The Countess stared, but not as she had stared. There 
was more surprise and less suspicion in her eyes. She 
looked uncertain, dubious, perplexed. That without her 
leave or knowledge, without a single communication made 
to her, this girl should have been impudently foisted on 
her household by that interfering old woman—with or 
without the consent of her husband—was in itself enough 
to wound her pride to the quick. But if only that were 
all: if only that darker suspicion that she had for a few 
humiliating moments entertained—nay, that she had read 
in the faces about her—were groundless? Certainly the 
girl did not look the part. Those timid eyes, that appeal- 
ing mouth, surely, surely they could not deceive to that 
point. And he, with all his faithlessness, had never yet 
stooped to that. She knew enough ill of him, God knew; 
but nothing so vile, so shameful, so unforgiveable as that! 
And, in a sharp revulsion of feeling, the Countess not only 
put the suspicion from her—for the time—but felt herself 
degraded by it, and angry, furiously angry with those 
whose mysterious looks had supported if they had not im- 
parted it. Thank God, in this at least she had wronged 
him ! 

But the girl remained, and what was she to do with her? 
To dismiss her offhand, as she had intended, would be to 
give colour to that hateful thought, if others did entertain 
it. And the child, ill at ease, though she hid her tremors, 
appealed to her. After a long silence, “You had better 
know the truth,” she said, and she still spoke coldly, for 
it was her habit. “Lady Elisabeth had no authority to en- 


50 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


gage you. I knew nothing ot your coming until I heard 
that you were in the house. And I do not think that you 
have either the experience or the qualifications needed for 
the post. I am quite sure that it will be the wisest course 
to close the matter at once.” 

The tears rose to Rachel’s eyes. All the difficulties, all 
the troubles that she had foreseen faded into nothingness 
beside this—this ignominious termination. “I am to go?” 
she said, her lips quivering. 

Lady Ellingham hesitated, for under that cold de- 
meanour, behind the armour of pride which she had as- 
sumed Hs self-defence, there beat a heart. It troubled her 
now. “Have you seen Lady Ann?” she asked. 

Vian” 

“Do you think it possible that you can manage her?” 

“T can try—I should like to try,” Rachel said, and her 
eyes pleaded for her. | 

“Well, I will consider. It is quite true that I proposed 
to find a governess for her this autumn. She has run wild 
long enough. But, frankly, you are not of the stamp I 
should have chosen. However,” she decided after a pause, 
“JT will consider whether I shall give you a trial, and I will 
let you know my decision in the morning. Good-evening. 
You can go now.” 

Her manner belied her words, for it held out less hope 
than she intended, and Rachel went back to the school- 
room in the lowest spirits; and, shocked by the sudden dis- 
covery of her false position, and faced by alternatives, 
neither of which was of a kind to soothe, she slept, we may 
be sure, little that night. At one moment—but that was 
in the cold grey of the dawn when her courage ran low— 
she inclined to think dismissal the lesser evil. But for 
the most part she leaned to, she clung to the hope of re- 
maining. The worst ordeal, even that which awaited her 
in the schoolroom, seemed preferable to a termination so 
premature and so humiliating, to a collapse of all her plans 
and prospects. She pictured her mother’s disappointment, 


IN TROUBLE SI 


she recalled the comfortable ietter that she had written 
home. And bravely she determined to make a fight for 
it, were the chance given her. 

She judged that if she was to go, if my lady’s thumb 
turned downwards, she would be sent for early in the day; 
and from the moment that she sat down to her hasty break- 
fast she was in a flutter of spirits, expecting the summons 
and rising at every sound that reached her. She rehearsed 
with passion the appeal that she would make to Lady 
Ellingham; again she saw herself telling the tale to her 
mother. So time wore on—slowly, it need not be said. It 
struck eleven, and her hopes rose with the delay. But, as 
nothing here is perfect, with her hopes her fears rose also. 
Lady Ann, now that it seemed to be possible that she would 
be entrusted with her, grew more terrible; the schoolroom 
took on the aspect of an arena in which she foresaw a 
shameful defeat, and—and then she heard a step approach- 
ing. 

She expected a servant bearing a message, but it was Mr. 
Girardot who entered. He paused on the threshold, and 
his looks, at once solicitous and subdued, seemed to dep- 
recate her anger. “If I thought, ma’am,” he said, “that 
my news was welcome I should bear a lighter heart. But 
I do not know how your wishes run.” 

“T cannot say,” Rachel replied trembling, “until I know 
what Lady Ellingham’s decision is.” 

“She—and, believe me, it is no small victory—desires 
that you will remain.” 

The blood rushed to Rachel’s face. “Oh!” she ex- 
claimed. The die was cast, then. 

He let himself go. “I see,” he said, “that I was not 
mistaken in you. I was not wrong. You have more 
courage than caution—more spirit than prudence. If 
you were a man you would not count heads. You are not 
to be lightly browbeaten !” 

For the moment Rachel felt only relief, and she smiled. 
“Courage may be rashness,” she said. “I know only too 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 


52 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


well now,”—her face growing grave again—“that the task 
was not meant for me and how ill-equipped I am for it. 
But you would not have me withdraw, sir? You would 
not have me,” she asked anxiously, “refuse to stay?” 

“T would not advise you,” he cried earnestly, “to any 
course that your sense and your will do not dictate to you. 
Heaven forbid! I know no better censors of any situation. 
I can fancy you equal to any decision !” 

She sighed and stood a moment reflecting, while he, 
watching her with growing interest, decided that no face 
that he had ever seen was so transparent a tale-teller. 
She really was, in her mingled weakness and strength, a 
dear little person. 

“But I must see Lady Ellingham,” she said at last, 
rousing herself, “before I can decide.” 

He put the suggestion aside. “There is no need,” he 
said. “I have full authority. Surely you do not doubt 
me?” 

She coloured. “No, of course not, sir. Still, I must 
see her.” 

“Ah!” Ina moment his tone changed to one of injury, 
and his eyes sparkled. “I see how it is, ma’am. You dis- 
trust me. You are above dealing through me. You think 
I am not a fitting intermediary. You must see—oh yes, 
of course you must—you must see Lady Ellingham her- 
self and nothing else will serve you. And yet,” in a softer 
tone, “I have been an intermediary. I may have ventured 
to advise, to suggest, even to entreat. I may have pointed 
out things not to your disadvantage. But I see,” his 
nostrils quivering, “I aim not trusted, ma’am. I am to be 
nothing in this!” 

“But indeed, indeed,” Rachel cried in great distress, “I 
did not mean that. I am sure that you have been my 
friend, sir—that you have spoken for me. And doubt- 
less “4 

“But I am not trusted!” He seemed to be on the point 
of leaving her in anger. 





IN TROUBLE 53 


“Please, please listen to me,” she said, clasping her 
hands. “It is not, indeed, it is not what you think. I 
am grateful, most grateful to you. Nevertheless I must 
see Lady Ellingham. I must have—you must see that I 
must have—her support with Lady Ann. It is essential, 
it is necessary. Without that I should not be justified in 
staying.” 

“And my influence with Lady Ann,” he replied gloomily, 
“is for nothing ?” 

She plucked up a spirit. “You know that it is not,” 
she said. Surely, surely, he was unreasonable. “But I 
know,” she added with an appealing look which was what 
he had been playing for, “that I can count upon it. I 
know that I have a friend in you.” 

His face cleared as by magic. “That is all I ask,” he 
said, with a charming smile. “But I know now what a 
proud, what an independent, what a prickly little spirit 
itis! I know you. Yes, ma’am, I know you.” 

“And I may see Lady Ellingham ?” 

“She is in the garden.” And without another word he 
turned away, leaving her, puzzled and disturbed, to review 
what had passed, to recall his looks, to smile at his un- 
reasonableness, to be grateful for his aid. 

The main fact that she was to stay was decided, then. 
For the interview in the garden, it may be very briefly 
described as it was seen by the eyes of Mr. Crosstrees, the 
head gardener. He told his story sitting on the edge of 
a chair in Mrs. Jemmett’s room, while he drank a tankard 
of old ale, tapped and drawn under Bowles’s own eye. 

“Well, ma’am, *twas a chance,” he said. “’T wasn’t my 
place to be there, and how I come to see them, I was show- 
ing the new lad to use a spade, which he works with his 
hand instead of his foot, and being unaccustomed I’d 
straightened my back. But there! What I saw was not 
worth seeing—just my lady and a poor little piece, stand- 
ing before her as meek as a toad, and all the say my lady’s 
till just at the end.” 


54 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Mrs. Jemmett gazed at the blindworm. If only she had 
been there! ‘Was her ladyship pleasant like ?” 

“Oh ay, oh ay, pleasant enough with a frost on it! Sort 
o° March sun and wind, if you understand, Mr. Bowles. 
As it might be the north side of a fence. Talking kind of 
slow, and her chin tilted.” 

“Not scolding ?” 

“Oh, nothing so low. Not demeanin’ herself. And 
by-’n’-by the little thing plucked up courage and said her 
bit, brave like for such as her, and my lady seemed to con- 
sider, and presently she called the young ladyship, and up 
her comes, black and sulky-like and kicking up behind. 
And my lady puts a hand on her shoulder and speaks a 
bit, her fidgeting and fermenting. Then, “You need not 
begin work till Monday,” says her ladyship, and nods her 
head, as much as to say “You may go,” and the young per- 
son curtsies—very pretty, I will say. And—and that’s all 
there was to it, ma’am.” 

Crosstrees drank up his ale, and, when he was gone, 
Bowles pronounced his opinion. “”T'was the tutor did it,” 
he said. 

“Ay, to be sure. Now I wonder why, Bowles?” 

“Well, if you ask me, it’s a dull place, ma’am. And Mr. 
G.’s one to amuse himself.” 

“T should have thought he’d enough of that to his hand,” 
Mrs. Jemmett said darkly. “I sometimes think if I were 
his lordship I should have a word to say to it.” 

Bowles looked at the door. These were great lengths, 
singular indiscretions. But the dumbness of Crosstrees 
provoked to candour, and the butler was too gallant a man 
to leave Mrs. Jemmett at a disadvantage. “There you’d 
be wrong, Mrs. J.,” he said. ‘My lord’s touched too much 
pitch not to know it when he sees it—and likewise not to 
know where no pitch there is. And gentlemen amuse 
themselves, ma’am, in more ways than one. There’s a way 
tickles their vanity, and no harm done.” 


“IN TROUBLE 55 


“Well, that’s not my lord’s way,” the housekeeper re- 
plied with decision. 

Bowles chuckled. “I’d be very sorry to say it was. 
And then again there’s another way i 

But Mrs. Jemmett’s modesty took alarm. “You know 
too much, my man,” she said. “Not in this room, if you 
please |” 





CHAPTER VII 
GAINING A FooTING 


RACHEL had won the cause, but she had still to pay the 
costs, she had still to make good her footing in the school- 
room. She had Ann on her mind and heavy on her mind, 
and a Black Monday in prospect; and she had less faith 
in Lady Ellingham’s support than she could wish. She 
longed for the trial of strength to be over, and much would 
it have surprised her had she been told that within forty- 
eight hours she would be feeling, if not reconciled to her 
lot, at any rate in a mood to snatch a passing enjoyment 
and to think it possible that she might find pleasure in her 
new life. 

Yet so it was, and the change came about very simply. 
Towards three on the next afternoon the boy blundered in 
on her studies. “I’m to ask,” he blurted out, kicking one 
foot against the other in’ his shyness, “if you’d care to 
come with us to the Stag’s Hole? We’re to boil the kettle 
there. Mr. Girardot is coming.” 

Rachel guessed to whom she owed the attention. But 
she saw that here was a chance, more gracious than the 
schoolroom afforded, of coming to terms with her pupil, 
and she gladly embraced the invitation. 

“Then in twenty minutes!” the boy cried, and whooped 
himself away. 

So half an hour later she found herself marching into 
the forest with the tutor and the two children, the latter 
riding a pony by turns and squabbling much over it. The 
treat was unexpected, the scene was new to her, the sun 


56 


GAINING A FOOTING 57 


shone, the woodland depths invited; and presently she was 
surprised to find herself at her ease. “In the season,” the 
tutor explained, “we do this once a week. Sometimes 
Lady Ellingham comes. She loves a féte-champétre and 
the simpler it is the more it is to her taste. Oh, you are 
not so much to be pitied, ma’am, as you think! In twelve 
months I predict . 

“Tf I am here,” she said. 

“No, no! No Jeremiads to-day, if you please!” he re- 
joined gaily. “I repeat that twelve months hence you will 
know every turn of this path and love it. You will be 
tied to the forest by every tendril of a heart that I am sure 
is open to the influence of beauty and solitude! You will 
mark with a white stone many a bank and resting place 
now strange to you, and harbour memories and tender 
memories of more than one. I see it! I know it! You 
will be a forest lover, ma’am!” He flourished the basket 
that he carried. 

Rachel shook her head. “I am not so sanguine,” she 
said, and she would fain have been insensible to the thrill 
that his words and his tone awoke in her. But how was 
she to resist the charm of the woodland that took her to 
its bosom, of the stately oaks, their feet clothed in bracken, 
or the dark beech-wood, so silent that the fall of the mast 
surprised the ear and the flight of a wood-dove startled the 
nerves? Of the green feathery bottom where a runlet 
tinkled unseen, and again sparkled in the sunshine? Or, 
if she were proof against these and against the holiday 
spirit that won insensibly upon her, how could she resist 
the tones that caressed her, that hinted interest, that 
avowed good-will, that claimed to share alike her confidence 
and her fears? Rachel had been more than woman if she 
had not in some degree succumbed to the charm, even 
though Ann’s black brows and repellent glances cried a 
warning. 

“You are not so sanguine?” he said, after a pause given, 
it seemed, to reflection. “Why? But it is idle to ask. I 





58 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


know. You do not deceive me. Lady Ellingham’s man- 
ner has chilled you. But what of it? She is Lady 
Ellingham, we are we, we bear the badge of servitude that 
Swift bore. Then let it unite us. We are of a kind, we 
owe one another what sympathy, what aid, what comfort is 
in our power. Yesterday, I am proud to avow it, I did 
and said what lay in my way. And you are here, and are 
not—do not say that you are—unhappy to be here? Good! 
Then to-morrow it may lie with you to do the same kind 
office for me, and I know you too well—oh I know you, I 
understand you. I have measured your loyal soul too ex- 
actly not to be sure that you in your turn - 

But here the children broke in, claiming an arbiter, pro- 
testing, appealing, wrangling. They fell to beating one 
another, and the fray was only closed by Girardot’s seiz- 
ing the girl, mastering her and dragging her on, half re- 
luetant, half willing, her arm prisoned in his. Possibly, 
he was not sorry to give the governess a proof of his power, 
where she felt herself so impotent; for he proceeded to 
tease Ann, to provoke and subdue the child by turns. And 
Rachel, who had shrunk from interposing, feeling herself 
unequal to the task, was not critical enough to discern that 
his authority was limited by the child’s humour, and went 
no farther than flattered her. Ann too was showing off. 

In a dingle with steep wooded sides and on a grassy plat, 
half encircled by a brook rippling clear and sharp over 
brown pebbles, they piled their wood beside a fallen trunk, 
lit it delicately with flint and steel and dry tinder, and set 
their kettle to boil. The children helped or hindered or 
strayed down the rivulet, turning stones for loaches. To 
Rachel the scene brought a sense of relief, of peace un- 
expected and unlooked for. The ease and freedom of the 
meal beside the stream pleased, and the boy made shy ad- 
vances to her. But her main difficulty remained, for she 
perceived that but for the tutor’s watchful attentions, and 
his care to include her, she would have had but cold enter- 
tainment; and that Ann at any rate would have sent her 





GAINING A FOOTING 59 


to Coventry. Was it wonderful if she felt, and if now and 
again a shy glance betrayed, her gratitude? If, as they 
loitered homewards through an evening stillness inviting 
to reverie, or if, once more alone in her solitude, life seemed 
to take on a warmer hue? 

And if rising in the morning she felt in place of dread 
the tingle of anticipation and conjectured in the coming 
day possibilities that she did not stay to analyse? No 
odd moment at which he might not appear! Now with a 
gentle “I ventured to bring you—but I see I am interrupt- 
ing you,” now with a brisker “Ha! ha! I see we wear 
our stand-off air to-day! We are proud, we are not to 
be trespassed on!” He brought her franks and she might 
now write to the Cottage without thought of the cost. 
And by and by he brought her a more startling surprise. 
He, or curiosity, or possibly ennui—but Rachel gave him 
the credit. For early in the afternoon two days later who 
should appear to break in on the governess’s solitude, 
but my lady. 

She nodded negligently to Rachel, who rose and curt- 
sied in confusion. She walked with studied calmness to 
the window, and gazed out. “You look to this side?” 
she said. “It is not the brighter side. Have you,” she 
asked, evidently for the sake of saying something, “all 
the books you need? All that you want?” And when 
Rachel explained that she had made a list, “Very good, 
Miss South, let Mr. Girardot have it. He will see to it.” 

The girl, fingering her pen, continued to stand. “Pray 
go on with whatever you are doing,” the Countess said, 
graciously inclining her head, as she turned to inspect 
the old foxed prints that adorned the wall. A tarnished 
mirror hung among them. Before this she lingered, and 
had Rachel been at her ease the girl would have seen that 
she was herself the real object under inspection—a cold 
inspection that omitted no detail of face or figure. 
Presently, to Rachel’s relief—for she found the silence 
both trying and ambiguous—her visitor moved towards 


60 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


the table. “You find the change excessive?” she said more 
gently. 

“T have been used to a quiet life, ma’am.” 

“And you are content?” 

“T shall be more than content if—if I am successtul 
with my pupil.” 

“And that is your only anxiety ?” 

“T think so.” 

Lady Ellingham nodded. She turned again to the door. 
“Well, I hope that Ann will take to you. Perhaps not 
at once, but @ 

The thud of a closing door stayed the words. A quick 
step outside, a hasty knock and the tutor entered, his 
face radiant. He clapped his hands. “Caught on the 
place, dear lady!” he cried. “The penalty is old, known, 
established! And Miss South will join with me, I am 
sure, in enforcing it, and bane crave the honour of your 
presence at the schoolroom tea.” 

But Lady Ellingham made it plain that she was not 
prepared for this. “Not to-day, Mr. Girardot,” she said 
soberly. 

The words went by him as if she had not spoken. 
“Which,” he continued with an exaggerated bow, “is even 
now mounting the stairs.” 

“No,” my lady repeated and this time more coldly. 
“Not to-day, if you please.” She signed to him to open 
the door. 

Rachel thought that that must end the matter, and felt 
that she was the obstacle. But she did not yet know the 
tutor, much less did she expect to hear her thought put 
into words. Instead of giving place, he stepped forward 
and with a smiling face he set his back to the door. “No, 
ma’am, not so!” he said. “I cannot let you, I cannot 
suffer you to belie your kind heart. You have not con- 
sidered, I know that you have not considered that to re- 
fuse to do this to-day—to refuse to grant a favour that 
you have so often granted before is to * 








GAINING A FOOTING 61 


“Really, Mr. Girardot,” the Countess broke in, colouring 
with annoyance, “I do not understand what you mean.” 

“You do not know that to refuse to-day is to”—he 
dropped his voice to a tone of confidence—“‘is to hurt the 
sensibilities of one who still feels herself a little homeless, 
a little strange, ma’am? Ah, no, I know you too well. 
I know that you have not considered that, or——” 

“You are too absurd!” my lady cried warmly. “You 
must let me pass, if you please!” 

But he still persisted, “No!” he said, and to Rachel’s 
surprise, who watched the scene with profound astonish- 
ment, he held the door, though my lady put her hand on 
it. “No, I appeal to the kindness of your heart! I know 
you, ma’am, to be generous, amiable, that you would not 
hurt a fly! And that rather than hurt one who—but ah! 
Here come more powerful intercessors! They may suc- 
ceed where I fail!” 

And with a submissive gesture he opened the door and 
admitted the children, who flung themselves upon their 
mother with cries of glee. “You will stay, mother, won’t 
you?” they pleaded. “You will stay? Mr. Girardot 
promised us that you would!” 

“T think Mr. Girardot,” the Countess said with a re- 
proachful glance, “takes too much upon himself. I am to 
have no will of my own, it seems! Still as you i 

“You will, won’t you? Say yes!” they cried, hugging 
her. 

She gave way. “I suppose I must,” she said. 

“Children,” he cried briskly, “clear the table! Room, 
room for the Sunday pound cake! It comes! It comes!” 

And within three minutes Rachel, dumbfounded by the 
audacity of this strange man, found herself seated at the 
table with the great lady. She found that she was even 
expected to preside and to pour out the tea—with nervous 
hands and a flushed face. Fortunately the jests and horse- 
play of the children, who never rested in their seats for 
a moment, robbed the meal of formality and though Lady 





62 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Ellingham rarely addressed her, and might almost have 
been suspected of shyness, and Lady Ann turned a cold 
and repelling shoulder, the ice was broken and a step, a 
perceptible step, was gained. The once dull room rang 
with shrieks and laughter, and if she was not of it, she 
sat amidst it—admiring. 

And when, left again to herself, she was free to think 
of what had passed, of what did she think? Inevitably of 
the actor who had played so strange a role in the scene 
and dominated it—of his audacity, his mastery, his clever- 
ness. Equally impossible was it for her not to reflect 
with a thrill of gratitude on the purpose to which he had 
devoted his powers. To helping her, lonely and insignifi- 
cant as she was, to winning a footing for her, to making 
things a little easier for her! 

And—and to think in such a case, to think long and 
gratefully was coming near to—but Rachel was not as 
yet awake to that. If she was tending in a certain direc- 
tion she did not perceive whither she was tending; nor 
understand why, when they were gone, she sat for minutes, 
lost in soothing dreams, why the future seemed to be 
more full of interest, of life, of possibilities, than it had 
seemed an hour or two before. She had come to Queen’s 
Folly vowed to a cloistered life, into which certain things 
did not enter, or at any rate were not supposed to enter ; 
and she did not yet discern that even a governess’s close 
bonnet is not proof against nature, an elf that has a way 
of stealing in by the keyhole, be the door ever so strongly 
barred. 

But she suspected where credit was due when Black 
Monday arrived, and the dreadful hour of ten came, and 
passed without open disaster. Lady Ann came sulkily in, 
sat lumpily down at the table, and scowled at her governess 
from under black brows, that said as plainly as if she had 
spoken, “I shan’t learn from you!” But she did not 
openly rebel, did not put out her tongue at her teacher, 
was not utterly dumb when addressed. Rachel felt, in- 


GAINING A FOOTING 63 


deed, as if she were dealing with a barrel of gunpowder, 
and every question that she put were a spark. But she 
hid her fears, like the gallant little soul that she was, 
did nine-tenths of the work herself, and. turned a blind 
eye to shrugs and grimaces. She looked to use and wont 
to help her, hoped by sheer gentleness to appeal to the 
good that was in the child—if good there was—and in 
the meantime she was content to get through the morning 
without an outburst. 

Somewhat emboldened she ventured on the morrow to 
set a French copy and Ann showed herself unexpectedly 
compliant. She produced a packet of quills dyed all the 
colours of the rainbow and enclosed in a fancy box, and 
choosing one, fell pretty willingly to work, her pleasure 
in the gaudy pen reconciling her, it seemed, to the task. 

So for some days things went tolerably, Rachel doing 
the greater part of the work and her pupil lolling and 
- fidgeting. But on the Friday Ann came to the school- 
room in a black mood. It was a fine morning, the sun 
shone gaily, the air laden with the scents of the forest, 
came in at the window, and the child rebelled. “I shan’t 
work to-day!” she said scowling, and refusing to take her 
seat. “So there!” 

“Nonsense, Ann!” Rachel replied briskly. “You will 
have the afternoon for play.” 

“Tt will rain. Bowles says it will.” 

“Well, we must take our chance of that.” 

Ann lumped herself heavily on her chair. “I shan’t 
work anyway.” 

Rachel summoned all her firmness though her heart 
beat unpleasantly. “You must not say that,” she said. 
“You will have a holiday to-morrow, and if you do not 
work to-day ‘i 

“What’ll you do?” defiantly. 

“There will be no tea at the Stag’s Brook to-morrow,” 
Rachel decided. She felt that she could no longer capit- 
ulate. 





64 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Oh, there won’t, won’t there!” Ann cried, and bounced 
up from her seat. “T’ll see about that, you horrid thing! 
You white-faced thing!” And before Rachel could inter- 
pose the child had flung out of the room. 

Rachel stood and looked at the door, in dismay. What 
could she do with such a pupil? So wilful, so stubborn, 
so rude? She could only go to Lady Ellingham and ask 
for support, and she felt that to resort to her at this early 
stage was to own defeat, and to confess that she was un- 
equal to the task. She could have cried. But there 
seemed to be nothing else for it, and with a sinking heart 
she was preparing to seek the Countess when she heard 
lagging steps returning. Ann sneaked in with a gloomy 
face, rubbing one leg against the other. She left the 
door open, and dumped herself down in her seat. 

“Be good enough to close the door!” Rachel said in her 
coldest tone. 

To her surprise the child obeyed. 

“T am glad,” Rachel continued, looking at her with all 
the severity that she could assume, “that you have thought 
better of it, Lady Ann. I should certainly have kept my 
word.” 

“T don’t care,” sullenly. “I don’t care whether we go 
to Stag’s Brook or no! But I—I promised him when he 
gave me the pens—that’s all!” 

“Well, I am glad that you have one virtue—you keep 
your word. So it was the pens, was it?” Rachel went on 
in a cutting tone, but she felt her face flame. “Then you 
had better take that one out of your mouth, and begin 
your French dictation. But understand, Ann, that it is a 
matter of no moment to me whether you like me or not. 
I may not like you; but it is my duty to teach you and I 
intend to do so. Now we will begin.” 

And it really seemed as if her words made some impres- 
sion. Ann scowled, indeed, as if she could kill her gov- 
erness, but she took the pen out of her mouth and wrote. 


GAINING A FOOTING 6s 


So that was the secret of the quills! They were his 
present. He had planned, schemed, and secured at least 
a beginning for her. Rachel’s face was still warm. Ann 
could no. longer have called her a white-faced thing. Her 
face was warm but her heart also swelled—with gratitude. 


CHAPTER VIII 
THE VEIL RENT 


DurinG those first weeks nothing struck Rachel more than 
the stately loneliness in which they lved. She had pic- 
tured the splendour and bustle of a great establishment, 
the coming and going of guests, the hum of carriages, 
cards, laughter, the swish of silken trains on polished floors. 
But the long reception rooms at Queen’s Folly lay day 
after day silent in sunshine, or faded into November 
gloom. The only train that swept them was my lady’s 
as, proud and still, she sought the gardens, or of an after- 
noon passed out through bowing servants to her solitary 
drive with her four horses and her outrider. At long 
intervals a visitor appeared and now and again the chil- 
dren broke loose from their guardians, wrangled and 
clattered across the hall, slid shrieking down the broad 
balusters. 

There were reasons why Queen’s Folly saw little com- 
pany. It was Lady EHllingham’s pleasure. But to some 
extent it was the same with many great houses at that 
day. Travelling was fatiguing as well as costly, and 
guests, when they came, came in large parties and stayed 
for long periods. Between times, the Squire and his lady 
sat down day after day with some led captain or chaplain, 
who was cunning in wine and patient of old stories; or 
with some mature spinster, who of mornings grounded the 
lady’s tambour-work and nursed her Raton. 

Towards the end of November, however, Rachel, now 
pretty well established, felt a little stir in the house. She 
came on maids in strange places and saw doors ajar that 


were usually closed. And, “Uncle George is coming,” Ann 
66 


THE VEIL RENT 67 


announced, sucking her pen defiantly. “I shan’t work 
while he is here.” 

“He’s bringing me a gun!” her brother bragged. “I’m 
to shoot with him. I shall shoot all day.” 

“Tt’s only a boy’s gun,” the girl replied jealously. “It’s 
not a real gun, silly.” 

pALeIs 

te ien’t ?? 

“You’re a liar!” On which battle was joined and the 
fight rolled tumultously out of the room, a whirl of arms 
and legs and shrill abuse. Rachel stopped her ears. 

The news was nothing to her. The memory of Captain 
Dunstan was far from pleasant—a rude brusque man who 
had regarded her feelings no more than if she had been 
a kitchen-maid. But in the housekeeper’s room, where a 
little break in the monotony was welcome, it provided 
a text on which Mrs. Jemmett had something to say. 

“Now we shall see,” the housekeeper commented, her 
face thoughtful. “The Captain has eyes as well as us. 
And it’s my thinking he’ll not like what he sees.” 

““You’re suspicious, suspicious, ma’am,” Bowles retorted. 
“Do you think as I’ve stood twice a day behind her lady- 
ship’s chair, and not know her?” 

“Now, Bowles, did I say a word against her ladyship? 
Not that she’s not a woman after all, and water wears away 
a stone. And some excuse in her case, poor lady, and I’d 
say that if I was dying! But it’s him J’m thinking of.” 

“Girardot? Well, you may take it from me,” with a 
chuckle, “that he’s otherwise employed, ma’am. If I saw 
my lady grow pink when he come into the room, and her 
ladyship’s hand shake when he spoke sudden, and her 
ladyship look out of the window, and sigh when he’s 
not there, and her ladyship walk as if the gravel was 
springy moss under her feet when she started to Stag’s 
Brook with him—if I see all that y 

Mrs. Jemmett’s eyes glittered. “But you don’t see that, 
Bowles, do you?” 





68 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“No, ma’am, I don’t! But I see all that—or it’s re- 
ported to me by them as does—in another quarter.” 

“Quick work, then!’ 

“She’s young, ma’am, she’s young. And he—well, you 
know what he is.” 

“Poor thing !” 

“Oh, she’ll not be the first by a many,” rubbing his nose. 
“And he’s the looks, and he may mean it this time. So 
I don’t know as she is so much to be pitied, Mrs. J.” 

“Pooh! man.” The housekeeper was scornful. “He’s 
only playing with her. I don’t see so much of her lady- 
ship as you do. But I’ve seen enough of him.” 

“Well, I don’t know. I’m not so certain sure, Mrs. J. 
It may have been as you say to begin, ma’am. But I’m not 
so sure now.” 

“Then he’s just a donkey between two bundles of hay,” 
Mrs. Jemmett retorted. “And if I were sure, I declare 
I’d speak to her ladyship. It’d open her eyes anyway.” 

“You’d lose the young woman her place that minute,” 
Bowles replied in alarm. “Her ladyship’s never got over 
the way the girl came. No, ma’am, nor ever been sure 
that what she thought at the first was wrong. She’d 
jump at the chance of getting rid of her.” 

Mrs. Jemmett looked sharply at the butler. “Well, I 
never, Bowles! I do believe you’ve a weakness for the 

wench yourself.” 
Bowles preened himself. “No, ma’am, no,” he said. 
“My wishes as you know is otherwise placed, Mrs. J.”— 
with a languishing look at the housekeeper. “I like some 
substance, ma’am. But my motto is ‘No interference!’ ” 

“Well, you may be right,’ Mrs. Jemmett admitted. 
“But I do say that if her ladyship goes on sitting with 
him at every odd time right before the main door, the 
Captain will be blinder than I think him, if he don’t take 
notice.” 

“Then he’ll show himself a deal less wise than my lord.” 

“Ah, my man, a Blenheim’s a good keeper, but it’s 


THE VEIL RENT 69 


only an apple after all!” Mrs. Jemmett rejoined, and 
though Bowles tried to provoke her to plainer speech it 
was in vain. 

That Rachel, a player in the game, saw less than the 
onlookers was natural. She had prepared herself for a 
life from which ‘certain feelings were supposed to be 
banished, and she took it for granted that they were 
banished. She had not taken the coif, indeed, and the 
world was still open to her. But to an extent, little less 
than if she had done so, she knew herself to be parted 
hy her employment from the emotional side of a girl’s 
life. The baize door that shut off the schoolroom was 
her grille, and her views and her tastes were supposed 
to lie within it. If she read Cecilha, or The Sorrows of 
Werther, it must be in private; in public she must revel 
in the flowery pages of Rasselas, and for her the world 
must consist of only one sex. 

This presumption, and her inexperience, closed her eyes 
a little longer than might have been expected to the path 
that she was treading. There were moments when she 
wondered why, with all her anxieties and with so much 
to depress her, she was content; why, with the thunder- 
cloud of her pupil constantly hanging over her, and with 
a pretty clear notion that Lady Ellingham looked coldly 
on her, she felt the drawbacks of her position so little; 
why, listening wakeful to the sough of the wind through 
the forest, and the cry of the screech-owl in the night, 
she had still only cheerful thoughts, and rising in the 
morning anticipated the day with an appetite for its 
chances. Something there was that added brilliance to 
the sunshine and a tender beauty to the evening; that 
awoke in her a passionate love for the woodland, its wind- 
ing paths and its green retreats. But what this was that 
thus lapped her in warmth and security, that lightened 
her heart and gave spring to her pulses, she was too in- 
experienced to inquire. 

She only told herself, and with gratitude, that people 


70 QUEEN'S FOLLY. 


were kind to her, that all went well with her, and that in 
no other position would she have been better placed or 
more happy. If she looked more often than was necessary 
in the tarnished mirror and tried more than one way of 
dressing her hair—well, she was a girl and young, and 
what was more natural? 

And then, on the day before that on which Captain 
Dunstan was expected, she met with a shock that in a 
single moment of time enlightened her. ‘The matter was 
itself the merest trifle; it was the effect which it had on 
her that drove the truth home. She was looking from 
her bedroom window, and she saw a thing that she had 
seen before. Down one of the avenues, walking slowly 
towards the house with the sunset behind them and the 
evening peace about them, came two persons; my lady, 
slow, stately, languid, her companion graceful, animated, 
bending towards her in intimate talk, and now and again 
enforcing his words with a gesture. Rachel had seen the 
same thing more than once and without a thought or 
suspicion. Now it caused her a pang as swift, as sharp, 
as arresting, as if an arrow had pierced her breast—a pang 
that drove her from the window, to stand breathless in 
the middle of the floor, battling with a pain as new as 
was the knowledge it taught her. 

She tried to reason, tried to reassure herself. But it 
was useless. She stood, breathing quickly, shaken to the 
depths of her being. She knew! She knew at last, and 
she covered her conscious face with her hands. She knew 
the secret of her content, of the warmth that had lapped 
her, of the spell that had transfigured alike the woodland 
path and the daily toil. 

The suspicion went for nothing. It fell harmless from 
the shield of her innocence—the conjuncture of the two 
meant nothing. But the veil that had masked her feelings 
from herself was rent, and rent beyond mending. She 
saw where she stood and what had happened to her during 
those weeks. Because he had been kind, because he had 


THE VEIL RENT 71 


been of service to her, because he had thrown her a few 
kind words and teased her and drolled with her, because 
he had laughing eyes and curly hair and a slender 
shape—— 

She buried her hot face in her hands. She in her posi- 
tion! And, oh, the folly of it, the shameful weakness of 
it, when he had never said a word, never looked a look— 
so she told herself—to encourage her. The fault lay all 
with her, and the weakness. And now—now all that re- 
mained to her was to conquer it; to free her heart from 
this foolishness that had coiled itself about it, to shut her 
ears to the siren and her eyes to the sweet charm that 
had painted all things in colours so entrancing. She must 
be strong and, above all things, pride and self-respect 
required that she must be secret. She must bury her silli- 
ness as she might, hiding her weakness from every eye, 
and especially from his. 

Above all, she must show the same face to him that she 
had ever shown. She must harden herself and accustom 
herself. But this was not so easy to do as to plan, and 
she was aware of this, so that it was an absent and taciturn 
Rachel who played her part next day, who saw Ann’s 
mistakes one moment and forgot to correct them the next, 
who for minutes lost herself in a reverie, and once, to 
the child’s angry surprise, rapped her sharply over the 
knuckles. A Rachel who, when Ann had left her, moved 
uneasily and restlessly about the room, unable to settle 
to anything. 

And then the moment that she dreaded came. 

She heard the baize door shriek, she heard his step in the 
passage and she took herself sternly in hand—was it not 
for this that she had been steeling herself all the morning? 
He came in, smiling, debonair, flourishing an open pen- 
knife, in his gayest, maddest mood. 

“Pens! Pens! Bring out your pens!” he cried. 
“Pens to mend!” Then seeing that she was stooping over 
the table, apparently intent on putting things straight 


72 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


after the morning’s work, he struck an attitude. “Now, 
there’s the woman to the life! All disorder she can mend! 
And to her duties nice attend! But when it comes unto 
a knife—then the man comes in!” 

“But really I am well supphed, Mr. Girardot,” she said 
soberly. She was still busying herself about the table. 

“Nonsense, ma’am, nonsense! With such an imp to 
spoil them? Impossible! You cannot be!” 

“Oh, she is growing better. Better than she was, I 
mean.” She ventured to look up and smile. 

“But, dear lady, this will never do! If there are no 
pens to mend, I shall be tempted to sever one of those 
little ringlets! Those boucles folatres, that have caught 
even the stubborn Ann in their meshes! Come, come, the 
knife cuts empty air! Which shall it be?” 

Twenty-four hours before Rachel would have accepted 
his badinage with a blush and a smile as Mr. Girardot’s 
nonsense; nor asked herself how far his laughing eyes 
and jesting words were winding themselves about her heart. 
To-day she was wiser, with a sad wisdom! But she 
dared not check him too suddenly, or he might—oh, sting- 
ing thought—suspect. And as playfully as she could, 
“Well, I am afraid you must drop the aspirate,” she said 
—cleverly as she thought—“and save the steel, Mr. Girar- 
dot.” 

But she was not clever enough. He caught the new 
note in her voice. “And save the steel?” he repeated, 
slowly. “I see. But—is something the matter, ma’am ?” 

She looked at him, innocently enough. “The matter? 
No, Mr. Girardot. Why?” 

“Well, methinks,” he said with a whimsical look, “there 
is a little too much of ‘Mr. Girardot’? this morning! Have 
we offended? Have we trespassed? Or has Ann been 
troublesome? Or is it,’ he continued with a droll look, 
“that the virtue of the pens that I am not permitted to 
mend—is wearing out.” 

“T know how good you have been,” she said. But she 


THE VEIL RENT 73 


could not put heart into her words, or speak as she would 
have spoken the day before. 

And he saw it of course. “Have been?” He raised his 
eyebrows. “And why not, ma’am, ‘how good you are’? , 
Is that too because the virtue of the pens is wearing out? 
And we are no longer on probation, but are established, 
settled, able to stand on our own little feet? And need 
no further help, eh? I see,” he concluded slowly, “I see.” 

That hurt Rachel and she coloured. “But you don’t 
see,” she said. “It is not that.” 

“But I fear it is that,” he replied gravely. “Poor little 
knife!” addressing it. “You are no longer of use, no 
longer wanted! ‘There are no more knots to cut! No 
more tangles to sever! Henceforth you are of use only 
to—cut our friends.” 

Oh, he was too much for her! She turned to the book- 
shelf to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes. “Please 
don’t say that,” she begged, and, alas, the traitorous tears 
were in her voice also. “You know it is not that.” 

He seized on the admission. “Then what is it?” 

The imminence of the danger restored her self-control. 
She had thought that without betraying herself she might 
_ place their relations on a new footing, and by a reserve 
too measured to be noticed set him at a distance. But 
he had in a moment pierced her defences; in another 
moment he might force her to avow that they were too— 
too intimate; and she would rather die than betray her- 
self in that way. In such a strait women can compass 
muc!, and, desperate, Rachel turned to him, she even 
smiled at him. “Well if you must know,” she confessed, 
“Ann has been troublesome this morning, and I lost my 
temper. And I slapped her. And I am vexed with 
myself.” 

“And how—” he inquired with genuine curiosity, “did 
my Lady Ann take it? She did not slap you back?” 

“No. Astonishingly well. And made me the more 
ashamed of myself.” 


74 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


It was surprising how singularly the brightness of her 
eyes, which were still moist, and a kind of shyness that he 
had not seen in her of late, became her. “Poor little 
girl!” he said, and he drew a step nearer. ‘You are upset 
I see. Shall I feel your pulse—and prescribe for you?” 

But Rachel knew that if he touched her she would burst 
into tears, and she drew back. “Thank you, I have my 
own prescription,” she said. 

“And that is?” 

If only he would take his eyes, his keen, humorous, 
dominating eyes off her! “Solitude and sewing,” she 
replied, as lightly as she could. ‘‘They are to a woman 
what wine, I suppose, is to a man.” 

“But we only prescribe wine in serious cases,” he an- 
swered, considering her. “And solitude? By that I sup- 
pose you wish me gone?” 

“YT have had Ann all the morning.” She let her weari- 
ness appear. 

“Poor girl! Poor little thing! Well, I obey. But— 
if you shut yourself up whenever Ann is naughty, heaven 
help your friends! I conclude,” with a searching glance, 
“that I still am—that I count as a friend?” 

“Of course!” she said. But the question pressed her 
home and the tell-tale blood rose to her cheeks. 

He nodded. “Ah!” And he said no more. He went 
out slowly, and she was left to doubt, and alas, gravely 
to doubt, if she had deceived him. But to think, even to 
suspect that she had not, and that he had seen through 
her coldness and understood its motive, was terrible. She 
told herself that she was very unhappy—and a week, only 
a week before how happy she had been, how blest in her 
ignorance ! 

Saturday, the last day of November, fell two days later, 
and was warm for the season. But, mild as it was, an 
al fresco tea was out of the question, and Rachel was 
thankful for this. She was spared his company in cir- 
cumstances that would have awakened every fond recollec- 


DAE VETL RENT 75 


tion and every moving sentiment. But although there 
could be no tea, Ann was bent on going to Stag’s Hole, 
and Rachel was forced to accompany her, though the sun- 
shine, that pierced the half-leafless trees and shot the 
mossy banks with jewels, no longer held any brightness 
for her, nor the long vistas of gleaming beech-trunks any 
loveliness. Still she was free to think her own thoughts 
and feed her melancholy; and, arrived at the spot, while 
Lady Ann strayed here and there about her ploys, Rachel, 
seated on a fallen trunk, gave way to dreams, so immersed 
in the internal battle that she was fighting, that the squir- 
rel cracking beech mast in the branches behind her, sat 
and watched her with fearless eyes. 

If only she might never see him again! That was be- 
ginning to be her cry. If by one sharp wrench, one savage 
operation she might free herself from the cruel noose that 
was winding itself about her heart and slowly compressing 
it. Yet, if she did not see him again! If all the world 
turned colourless and cold, and only east winds blew and 
clouds hung ever grey between her and the sun! Poor 
girl, it was a long and sad road that her thoughts travelled 
that afternoon; a road harder than she had thought to 
travel. But all things end and at length with a jerk she 
came back to the present—the present that chimed in 
strangely with her sad fancies. For the sky had grown 
overcast, the wind cold, the outlook grey. The sun had 
set. It was late, far later in the day than she had 
supposed. 

Alarmed, she looked about her for Ann. Where was 
she? “Lady Ann!” she cried anxiously. “Ann! Where 
are you?” 

Ann was not far off and, of course, was in mischief. 
She had doffed her shoes and stockings and was paddling 
in the brook, November though it was. Her hardy little 
legs showed raw-red through the clear water, and well 
aware that she kad stolen a march on her companion, she 
was wantonly set on pushing her advantage to the utmost. 


76 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Instead of coming out when bidden, she moved over to 
the other side of the brook. “No hurry!” she said, with- 
out looking up. “I'll come out in a minute!” 

“You should never have gone in!” Rachel replied an- 
grily, aware that she was herself in fault. 

But Ann was equally aware of that, and rejoiced in an 
iniquity which her governess shared. “Well, you never 
told me not to!” she retorted. 

“‘And here is your bracelet on the bank!” 

“T put it there. It is quite safe.” 

“Now come out at once! Ann, I insist on it!” Rachel 
stormed. “Do you hear?” And, after a little parley, 
Ann consented to come out, probably because the water 
was cold—and she alone could have borne it so long. But 
her feet, numb and stone-cold, had to be rubbed and 
dried, and her stockings and shoes to be put on, and, to 
Rachel’s dismay, her petticoats were wet. Then to every- 
thing that had to be done, the child opposed a passive 
resistance, so that more than twenty minutes elapsed be- 
fore they were ready to start. 

Rachel knew herself to blame, and that she should not 
have suffered the child to paddle at this season; and once 
they were on the homeward path she resolutely pressed the 
pace, so that when they emerged from the forest and 
sighted the house, some margin of daylight still remained. 
But then a dreadful thing happened. “I’ll have my brace- 
let now,” Ann said. 

“Your bracelet ?” 

“You took it from the bank, you know. I saw you.” 

“Oh!” Rachel stood, horror-stricken. “I left it on the 
tree where we were sitting.” 

“Well,” Ann cried in triumph. “You’ve done it, now! 
It’s your forget. And we’ll have to go back. And it will 
be dark, black dark, before we get home. Hurrah!” 

Rachel was appalled. The bracelet was a gift of Cap- 
tain Dunstan’s and, being set with amethysts, was of value. 
According to Ann’s version, it had been presented to him 


Pitts VET ORENT . 77, 


by a French lady in acknowledgment of his generous 
treatment of the passengers on a French packet that he 
had taken in the Indian seas. My lord, on the other 
hand, maintained that it had been loot, bought for half 
a guinea from a fo’c’sle hand. But whichever story was 
true, its loss would be no small thing, and Ann knew this 
and made the most of it. “Hurrah!” she cried. “It’s 
almost dark now, and we must go back!” 

“You will do nothing of the-kind,” Rachel said with 
temper. “You will go straight to the house. It’s not 
two hundred yards, and no harm can come to you. It is 
still light. I will go back for it.” 

“But it is mine and I a 

“You will go straight home!” Rachel insisted, firm for 
once. 

“Well,” rebelliously, “I shall tell mother—whose fault 
it was !” 

But Rachel was angry, and a little frightened. “You 
will do as you are told!” she said. 

For once Ann gave way. “Well, all right,’ she said. 
“You need not get into a pucker about it. It wasn’t my 
fault. I didn’t lose it.” 

“And you will change your petticoats the moment you 
reach the house.” 

She stood and watched the child until she was within a 
hundred yards of the entrance-gates. Then, satisfied that 
no harm could come to her charge, Rachel turned, and as 
fast as she could, she retraced her steps, little thinking 
that with every yard she was spinning a new colour into 
the thread of her life. She knew that dusk would be 
upon her before she could reach the brook, and that much 
of her return journey must be made in the dark, and under 
such conditions she had no taste for the loneliness of the 
forest. Still if anything happened to the bracelet she 
would be responsible, and she hardened her heart and put 
her best foot foremost. But she had already walked some 
miles, and her strength was flagging when at last she saw 





78 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


below her, dim and shadowy now, the open space beside 
the brook. 

She saw it with relief, for it would be something at least 
to turn her face towards home and to have the terrors 
of the forest at her back, and she dropped quickly down 
to it. But when she was within twenty yards of the spot, 
which a zig-zag in the path had hidden for a moment, she 
perceived with alarm that it was tenanted. ‘T'wo men were 
there, one seated in the fallen tree on which she had sat, 
the other standing with a foot resting on it. They had 
not heard her approach, for, with their heads close to- 
gether, they were examining by the dim light something 
which the seated man held in his hand. 

The bracelet? It must be that. 

Then for a moment she breathed more freely. No doubt 
the men were two of the forest rangers, and with that 
happy thought in her mind, she approached them boldly, 
too anxious about the bracelet to count chances. 

But when she was within five paces of the men they 
heard her and turned, and the one who was seated sprang 
to his feet. And now—when it was too late to avoid them 
—she took in their aspect, and it was with a shock of 
fear that she saw they were not keepers. One wore an old 
uniform-coat and a soldier’s broken hat, and both were 
filthy and ragged, with vagrant written plain upon their 
squalid persons. Rachel hesitated, alarm driving the 
colour from her face. She was alone, the dusky woodland 
rose high on each side, walling her in, and they held the 
bracelet. To them it was a monstrous prize, and help in 
that solitary place and at that hour was out of the question. 


CHAPTER IX 
A Brute! 


But the blood of the sturdy old divine, who was Mrs. 
South’s pride, ran in the girl’s veins. She owned the 
spirit that in a desperate strait rises to meet the emer- 
gency, and, with courage, wit also came at her call. She 
turned and deliberately beckoned with her hand as if to 
someone above her. “Stay there!” she cried. “I’ve found 
it!” Her voice rang unnaturally shrill, but it was only 
the clearer for that. Then she turned and with coolness, 
forced indeed, but the men could not know that, “You’ve 
found my bracelet!” she said. “I am much obliged to 
you. I shall be glad to—” for a moment her voice 
weakened, for the ruffians’ greedy eyes and lowering faces 
appalled her—“to reward you with a shilling for finding 
fgg 

Her appearance had startled the men almost as much 
as their presence had startled her, for they too had their 
grounds for fear; and they stared at her, doubtful and 
suspicious—stared at her and stared also with keen eyes 
up the path by which she had descended. There might 
be others with her—more likely than not, at that hour; 
and it was well to be on the safe side. So, after a pause 
of suspense during which Rachel could almost hear her 
heart beat, one of the two answered her. “God bless your 
feeling heart, ma’am,” he said in a whining tone. “We’re 
poor men, ma’am, and hungry. If you have a shilling 
we'll thank you kindly.” 

But their looks belied his words, and Rachel’s fears be- 
gan to get the better of her. Still, with an effort, “Then 
here is the shilling,” she said. “You are very welcome 

79 


80 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


to it.” She fumbled for her purse, and got it out. But 
her fingers shook so nervously that she had much ado to 
separate the coin from the others, and meantime the 
shadowy path on which the men’s eyes were fixed disclosed 
no followers. 

The man who had spoken nudged the other. “All 
right,” he said, more roughly. “Give us your shilling!” 
He advanced a step and held out his hand. But when 
Rachel presented the coin he grabbed the purse instead, 
and when she recoiled in terror, she found that the second 
man had slipped behind her and had cut off her retreat. 

Then, “D—n your shilling,” the man with the purse 
growled, casting off the mask. “A pretty slut you, to 
offer us a shilling! Blast your impudence! What else 
have you got?” 

She was quite helpless, and she could have no doubt 
now that they meant the worst, and that she was in deadly 
peril. But she kept her head, though she knew that at 
any moment panic might seize her by the throat. “Then 
keep the purse, and give me the bracelet,” she said as 
steadily as she could. “And I will—I will say nothing 
about it. But the bracelet is Lady Ellingham’s, and if it 
is missed there will be a search.” 

“Search be d—d!” the man retorted. “We'll search 
you, and see if there’s no more of the rhino about you! 
Or another of these pretty shiners!” And before Rachel 
could move the man sprang forward and grasped her by 
the shoulder. “Here, Droughty,” he cried, as she made 
a desperate attempt to wrest herself from him, “hold the 
little devil’s hands, and we’ll see what she’s good for! 
Hold the trull’s hands, do you hear, you fool, and I'll 
soon Be 

But at that and at last Rachel’s courage gave way, and 
she shrieked—what else could she do?—shrieked with all 
the power of a woman’s lungs. The wretch who held her 
tried to thrust the tippet that covered her shoulders into 
her mouth. “Stow it, you little slut!” he cried. “Shut 





A BRUTE! SI 


your pipe, will you?” But she fought with the strength 
of despair, her cries rang again and again down the dark 
aisles, scaring the wood-pigeons from their perches; and 
happily the second man was more timid or less forward, 
and hung off. But her resistance could not have lasted 
many seconds, she was nearly at the end of her strength, 
when a sound louder than her screams—the report of a 
gun—rent the air. It paralysed her assailant, for the 
explosion was so near that the shots passed through the 
branches overhead. The ruffian’s hands fell from her, and 
she tore herself loose. The second man was already wheel- 
ing about, ready-poised for flight. 

“What the devil is it?” a voice shouted from the farther 
side of the brook. The undergrowth in that quarter 
rustled and quivered, a figure broke through it, and ap- 
peared at the brink of the water. “What’s wrong there?” 

It was enough. The intruder might be alone, but he 
had a gun, and the law, with its short shrift and halter, 
was behind him. As he leapt the brook, the men turned 
and fled. He had a glimpse of them, saw that they were 
two, had time to mark their appearance. Then only the 
sound of breaking branches betrayed the direction in which 
they were making off. 

The man whose arrival had been so timely had reached 
the fallen trunk, and a second man had emerged beside the 
brook before the former espied the girl leaning exhausted 
against a tree. He stared at her almost as if he had not 
expected to see something of the kind. “The devil!” he 
exclaimed. “Well, I thought by G—d, no rabbit could 
squeak like that! A boatswain’s whistle was nothing to 
it! Are you hurt?” 

His tone was abrupt and compelling, but Rachel could 
not speak. She could only shake her head. ‘‘D—d land- 
sharks!” he muttered. “Lord, who’d live ashore where 
such things be and your life not safe an hour? Were they 
for robbing you, my girl?” 

Still she could not speak—she was feeling very sick— 


82 QUEEN’S FOLLY, 


but she nodded. “Here, Tobin,’ the Captain said—for 
the Captain it was—‘“take my gun and chase those sharks. 
If they show fight bear away and fire into them. Haul 
them to the constable’s, d’you hear, and see them in irons! 
Pll stand by the young woman.” 

The keeper took the gun and hurried away down the 
stream in the direction that the men had taken. The 
Captain turned to the girl. “Coming to?” he asked. 

Rachel heaved a deep sigh and found her voice. “Yes,” 
she whispered. “But if you had not come up”—a shudder 
seized her, shaking her from head to foot—“they would 
have murdered me.” 

The Captain cast an eye round. In the open space a 
faint light still lingered, but in the wood about them it 
was night. He doubted. The circumstances were queer. 
“You're the governess, ain’t you,” he said, “that I gave a 
lift to?” : 

“Yes.” She was beginning to recover control of herself. 

“T thought so, by gad! Thought I knew the cut of your 
jib. Well, ma’am, what the blazes were you doing here? 
At this time of night?” There was suspicion in his tone. 

“T left the bracelet-—Lady Ann’s bracelet—here,” she 
murmured. “It was my fault and I came back for it.” 

“A d—d silly thing to do!” 

“Those men had found it. Please, will you look. I 
saw them drop it—when you came up. It is by the tree, 
I think,” she added with a shudder. 

He stooped, peered about, and after a short search he 
found the bracelet lying among the fallen leaves. “Five 
pounds worth,” he said. “And you were foolish enough 
to come here for it—at this time! You ought to be broke 
for it, ma’am. But,’ he continued with doubt, “are you 
sure that you are speaking by the mark, young woman? 
Not pipe-claying the account, eh? Didn’t come here to 
meet some young shaver?” 

The blood returned to Rachel’s face. “No!” she said, 
indignantly. “I left the bracelet and I came back to look 


A BRUTE! 83 


for it. The men had found it and I—I was too near 
them, when I saw them, to escape. I had to—to do the 
best I could!” Her voice shook, for she was on the verge 
of angry tears. “I—I offered them a shilling—for find- 
ing it. I thought that they were going to take the shilling, 
but they seized my purse and—and took hold of me, and 
i ” at last under the stress of the things remembered, 
she broke down and sobbed without check. 

The Captain, staring at her, wished himself anywhere 
else, and after watching her for a moment, “Oh, for God’s 
sake, don’t pipe up like that,” he said irritably. “They’ve 
cleared off and you are safe and there’s an end of it. It 
was your fault for coming ashore without leave, young 
woman. Come, come, ma’am, enough of that! Can you 
walk ?” 

She tried to choke back her sobs. She stammered that 
she could. 

“Then let’s be going! The sooner the better, if you 
don’t want your name to be sent up to the quarter-deck 
to-morrow! Come, come, brace up, ma’am! And first 
haul in your sheets!” 

He pointed to her tippet and kerchief which the ruffian’s 
violence had dragged from her shoulders, leaving them 
partly bare. Rachel had been unconscious of it; now 
with a blush which the darkness covered, she tucked in 
the kerchief and drew the tippet down, with a healthy 
sting of anger that did her good. The Captain’s rough- 
ness had at least spared her the pain of obligation, and 
as she turned with trembling limbs to go with him, the 
effort costing her more than he thought, she made up her 
mind that he was the most odious man she had ever met. 
When he offered his arm she declined it curtly—she would 
walk till she dropped before she would take it! “No,” 
she said. “I can walk better by myself—I thank you.” 

“Well, I dare say you can. There’s certainly one thing 
you can do, young woman, and that is scream! Lord, 
it goes through my head now.” 





84 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Brute! Rachel thought. 

“Tobin would have it that it was a rabbit, but I said, no 
rabbit!” He chuckled at the remembrance. “No rabbit 
in a stoat’s mouth ever made a noise like that.” _ 

And the man called himself a gentleman! Rachel 
trembled with indignation. And presently, her wounded 
spirit giving her strength, “Have you ever been in dan- 
ger of your life?” she asked. “Very near to—to death, 
sir?” 

He seemed to take time to think. Then, “Well, young 
woman, once or twice. Within hail of it, maybe.” 

“And were you not frightened ?” 

She fully expected that he would deny it and she had 
made up her mind not to believe him. But with a sort of 
relish, “Frightened?” he said. “Lord, you may swear to 
that! Frightened? I wished myself anywhere else I can 
tell you, as I wager you did! Wished myself ashore, by 
G—d !” 

The admission disappointed her, but she took it up. 
“Yet you are a man!” she said, a sting in her tone. “And 
—and I was a woman and—helpless! Don’t you think 
I had a right to be frightened ?” 

“And to scream. To be sure! Why not? Of course 
you had, and you did it too, ma’am!” He laughed again 
at the remembrance. “You did it, by Jove, as if you’d 
been tied up at the gangway.” 

Oh, he was a brute! He deserved no answer and Rachel 
vouchsafed none. If obligation there was, if he had saved 
her life, he had certainly wiped off the debt, and she owed 
him nothing! She plodded dumbly up the ascent, drag- 
ging one foot after another, and presently he began to 
whistle to himself. Then in place of whistling, he fell to 
humming : 


“At the Battle of the Nile I was there all the while, 
I was there all the while at the battle of the Nile,” 


A BRUTE! 85 


in a way that vividly recalled to her her ride in the post- 
chaise. Her nerves were on edge with exhaustion, and 
after a time she could bear it no longer. She had to speak. 
“That is doggerel!”? she said irritably. “It isn’t poetry.” 

“No,” he replied coolly. “It is better. It is truth.” 

“Were you there?” She longed to snub him. 

“Well, it happens I was,’ he answered dryly. “There 
or thereabouts.” 

She was taken aback, and a little shocked by her own 
rudeness. “Then do you know Lord Nelson?” she asked 
with, weary as she was, a scrap of interest. For Nelson’s 
name was then a name to conjure with. His portrait and 
Lady Hamilton’s were in every print-shop, his character, 
his exploits, his past, were the subjects of a thousand argu- 
ments, debates, disputations. He was belauded, slandered, 
deified, belittled. Some worshipped him, some sneered at 
him. But with the populace he was an idol, and when he 
appeared in public the common people crowded about him 
as if he had been a monarch walking the streets. 

“Yes, I’ve seen him,” the Captain admitted—reluctantly 
as it seemed. “Nothing to see! A little chap, light in 
the waist and thin as a curl-paper, about your rig, ma’am! 
Thinning on the fore-top, which you are not. Nothing 
to look at and mild as milk, God bless you. One arm, 
one eye, about half a man, and sick as a three months’ old 
puppy when there’s a breeze. Weighs about half a ship’s 
boy. But in action, when the bulkheads are down and 
the linstocks are lighted, then, ma’am 4 

He paused so long that Rachel said “Yes?” 

“A flame of fire!” 

“Oh!” The words were so unlike the speaker that 
Rachel gasped. 

He whistled. “Lights ahead!” he announced. “Thank 
God we’re here.” His next words were a fresh surprise. 
“Well Ill say this, young woman! You are not of the 
swooning sort, and thank heaven for that, for I know 





86 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


more about missing stays than unlacing them, and begad 
I thought at one time that it would come to that! What? 
Sheering off? The door’s open and they’re looking out 
for us. I expect 

“T go in by the side door,” Rachel said. “Thank you!” 
She paused in the act of turning away, and then—she 
could not be churlish after all—“I am much obliged to you 
—for what you did,” she added. 

“Well, I could not do much less!” In a moment he 
was almost good-humoured. 

“No, that is true,” she said. “Thank you.” 

She was moving away to the side door, her one deste 
to enter without notice. But unfortunately: as she did 
so, the light that poured from the open entrance fell upon 
her. “Is that Miss South?” a voice asked—a voice bleak 
as the east wind. 

Rachel had no choice after that but to advance into the 
light. 

“Yes,” she faltered. “I have been detained, Lady El- 
lingham. I am very sorry. I sent Lady Ann back. I— 
I hope she came in.” 

“She came in, yes—soaked to the waist,’ Lady EHlling- 
ham replied in cutting accents. “If this,” as poor Rachel, 
hardly able to keep her feet, crept into the full light 
of the hall, and white with fatigue, stood exposed, in all 
the disorder of her dress, to the looks of the servants whom 
my lady’s anger had brought to the spot, “if this is an in- 
stance of your care of Ann, Miss South! And of your 
own conduct if 

“She’s had a bit of a burst-up,” muttered the Captain, 
making eyes over the culprit’s head. 

But my lady was too angry to be diverted. She had 
never taken to the governess, for reasons she knew best 
herself; and those unlucky wet petticoats and this late 
return, which the Captain’s company did not mitigate, 
completed the business. “I am most seriously displeased, 
Miss South,” she said. 








A BRUTE! 87 


Rachel was too sick and too weary to contend, but she 
made an effort to explain. “I left Lady Ann’s bracelet,” 
She said. “And I went back for it, and i 

The Countess cut her short. “I will hear your excuses 
to-morrow,” she answered. “I wish to hear no more now, 
Will you be good enough to go to your room.” 

“Oh come, Kitty,” the Captain remonstrated. “You 
don’t understand (i 

“TY understand enough,” Lady Ellingham retorted. “I 
wish to hear no more. Be good enough to go to your 
room, Miss South, and I will speak to you in the morning.” 

Rachel attempted no further defence. She walked 
trembling to the staircase, her heart bursting with indig- 
nation. Oh, these cruel, inhuman, unfeeling people! The 
light dazzled her, the floor moved up and down, the stairs 
wavered before her, it was only by seizing the friendly 
hand-rail that she managed to keep her feet until she had 
passed up and was out of sight. And that coward who 
had said hardly one word for her! Who had let her be 
blamed and reprimanded and put to shame before the 
servants! Who had let her fight her own battle, though 
he knew what she had gone through, though he knew 
what she had suffered, and how ill she was! 

She went giddily along the passages and gained at last 
the haven of her room. She turned the key in the lock, 
and the world, the hard cruel world shut out, she flung 
herself, crying bitterly, on her bed. One thought was still 
uppermost in her. “The coward! Oh, the coward!” she 
sobbed again and again. And she thought how differently 
how nobly another would have behaved in his place! How 
boldly, with what eloquence he would have sprung to the 
rescue, how staunchly, how manfully he would have in- 
sisted on being heard! Ah, he would! He would not 
have suffered her to be wronged and stood by silent— 
though for him to take up her cause spelled courage in- 
deed! For he like her was a dependant! 

It was in the injustice of it that the sting lay! She 








88 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


was a dependant and therefore, wrong or right, she was 
condemned in advance! She was helpless, powerless. 

But it was all for the best—she was brought so low 
that she admitted it bitterly. In the morning she would 
be sent away, she would be sent home in disgrace. But 
better so! Far better that she should go, before she had 
fresh occasion to compare him with others, before his good- 
ness so grew upon her as to sap the last strongholds of 
pride and self-respect! Before the sweet plague, that had 
stolen so insensibly, so subtly, into her veins, overcame 
her altogether, and she had no longer the strength of 
mind to hide her folly. 


CHAP PHI 
BROTHER AND SISTER 


“WRETCHED little girl!” the Countess exclaimed, as the 
door of the library closed behind the two. “She let Ann 
come home alone, though it was as good as dark. And the 
child’s petticoats were drenched to the gathers!” 

The Captain took out his case and chose a cigar with 
eare. He settled himself in a chair. “May I smoke?” 
he asked. “Bad habit, but second nature. West Indian 
station, you know.” 

She was too much out of temper to assent by more 
than an ungracious gesture. She stood before the fire, 
tapping the floor with her foot. At length, at his ease, 
and his cigar alight, “Discipline! Officers must be sup- 
ported,” he explained, “so I kept my mouth shut. But you 
are on the wrong tack, my dear. And you'll have to go 
about.” 

His quiet leisurely words only increased her irritation. 
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “don’t tell me that you are taken 
with that little creature with the turn-up nose! I thought 
that you had some sense, George. If it had been Fred 
now ” She shrugged her shoulders. 

“T believe that that is what you have in your mind— 
Fred,” he answered placidly. “But you are wrong, my 
dear.” 

“Well,” she retorted with two angry spots on her cheeks, 
“T believe you thought so once.” 

“Tf I did—I was wrong, and I did Fred an injustice. 
He’s not come down to that yet. But I am not dealing 
with him now—only I think it is that that has set you off 
your course, Kitty. So let’s put back to—to to-day. If 

89 





90 | QUEEN’S FOLLY 


99 





any one was to blame it was Ann. She got wadin 

“In November!” my lady cried with a flash of indignant 
eyes. ‘And whose business was it to prevent her?” 

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. “The girl’s, of 
course. But the woman’s not born that can control Ann 
when the devil’s in her. A boatswain and two boatswain’s 
mates with a rope’s end apiece and every man of them 
with eyes at the back of his head couldn’t keep Ann out 
of mischief when she has a mind to it. And you expect 
that little chit as big as a sprit-sail yard to keep her from 
it? Ann got in the water—as get in the water she would 
if there was water to get in—and the girl dried her as 
well as she could and hurried her home.” 

“But she did not bring her home.” 

“She brought her to within a hundred yards of the 
house.” 

Lady Ellingham lifted her chin. “You are well up 
in her story!” she said. 

“And then the girl went back for something that they 
had forgotten.” 

“T suppose that also was Ann’s fault?” 

“No, it was not. She had taken off her bracelet—the 
one I gave her—and the girl took charge of it for safety, 
and while drying the child she laid it down and forgot 
it. She went back for it.” 

“Then she should have done nothing of the kind!” 
Lady Ellingham declared, glad to find some vent for her 
annoyance. “She should have come in and sent a man 
for ite 

“TI suppose she thought,” the Captain explained, watch- 
ing the smoke rise from his cigar, “that if she came back 
without it she’d be booked for punishment. Anyway she 
bore away though it was late, and I don’t suppose she 
liked it. When she reached the place—it was pretty dark, 
and a mile from home, mind you—there were two land- 
lubbers there, one of them a deserter by his coat, and, by 
God, they’d got the bracelet.” 


BROTHER AND SISTER gl 


Lady Ellingham’s attention was caught at last. “And 
what did she do?” 

“Do? Well, she couldn’t get away—she was too close 
to them. So she went up as bold as brass and offered 
them a shilling for finding it—just as if she’d been in 
Berkeley Square. And nearly carried it off, the little 
baggage, by sheer impudence—where there wasn’t, mind 
you, a soul to help her within a mile of her. But when 
they saw the purse it was too much for them, and they 
snatched it, and caught hold of her and were searching 
her !” 

“Ah!” The listener winced. The red spots were gone 
from her cheeks. 

“Just so,” said the Captain coolly. “It was ‘Ah!’ ” 

“And—what did she do?” 

“Squealed like a rabbit in a trap, only ten hundred 
times louder! What else could she do—against two d—d 
gaol-birds? Luckily I was coming home with Tobin and 
heard her, and, thinking it was either the father of all 
the rabbits in a trap or a woman’s pipe, I fired my gun 
and steered for her. She was nearly done when I came 
up! Tye no doubt they’d have murdered her in the end.” 

“The wretches !” 

“They sheered off when we came up. Tobin chased, 
and I stood by the girl. Confounded fix I was in, Kitty, 
when I saw how they’d handled her, and I wished I’d kept 
him, for she looked like foundering, and where should I 
have been? However, I called her a silly little fool, and 
read the Articles of War to her—outstaying her leave, 
and so on, and she came round. I could see that she was 
pretty deep by the head, still, but she never let me lay 
a hand to her—thought me a pretty brute, no doubt! But 
I tell you, my dear, she’s a d—d plucky piece, as plucky 
as any thirteen-year-old middy that ever smuggled into 
a cutting-out boat; and there’s nothing beats that!” 

“She’s evidently won your heart,” my lady said. 

“A white-faced chit with a turn-up nose, my dear?” 


Q2 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


9 





“Well,” she allowed reluctantly, “perhaps I’ve 

“Made a mistake? You have. And to-morrow you'll 
have to sing small, and set it right, Kitty.” 

Lady Ellingham studied the point. “The bracelet has 
gone, I suppose?” 

“No. And I’m not sure that that is not the queerest 
thing of all. One of the men dropped it, when he sighted 
me. Well, that little girl, and the devil’s hands hardly 
off her, had the coolness to see it fall and tally the place. 
She told me where it was, and I found it.” 

The Countess looked uncomfortable. She was very far 
from being an ungenerous woman when her instincts 
had fair play. 

“Do you know,” he resumed, looking at the end of his 
cigar, “I thought—from something you said last evening 
—that you were beginning to like her.” 

“Well,” my lady said slowly, “perhaps I was. More 
than at first. But ss 

“But what?” 

“The last week or two I’ve thought that she was seeing 
too much of—of Mr. Girardot, if you must know. And 
that would not do at all. It would be the end of her 
as a governess. Instead of looking after Ann she’d be 
mooning after him. I shouldn’t wonder if that was not 
at the bottom of this.” 

“But Girardot wasn’t there.” 

“Oh, no, I don’t sa i 

“But was he? Do you know?” 

“I know he wasn’t. He was here. But I am speaking 
generally. A governess who——” She shrugged her 
shoulders and did not finish the sentence. “Impossible!” 

The Captain rolled a loose leaf round his cigar, a feat 
that seemed to require all his attention. “Well, ’m going 
to speak generally too,” he said. “Though God knows 
it’s not my place to speak. Aren’t you seeing rather too 
much of that young man, Kitty ?” 

“George !” 








BROTHER AND SISTER 93 


“T know,” he said equably. “You are angry, and good 
reason. No business of mine. But—well, I don’t lke 
the young gentleman and I don’t trust him. He’s too 
clever and too glib. And”’—carefully scrutinising his 
cigar—“too d—d good-looking altogether. And though 
you don’t think, perhaps he will think, and other people 
will talk. And Fred—more blame to him, and more fool 
he !—isn’t here.” 

“Tf he were,” she retorted, the red spots back in her 
cheeks, “he would never insult me even by the thought!” 
Her head was high. 

“And he’d be right, my dear, for he’s a d—d inconse- 
quent chap. Has the wisdom to know that his wife is ice 
while he thinks every other man’s wife is—tinder! I 
agree with him—on the first head. But Master Girardot 
may be of a different opinion, and if you don’t send him 
over to the lee side in time he’ll be forgetting himself, 
and one of these fine days he’ll give you a bad quarter of 
an hour.” 

She flashed out at him, her face scarlet. ‘“You’ve no 
right,” she cried passionately—“no right to say that!” 

He looked at her very kindly, unmoved by the challenge. 
“Haven't 1?” he said. “Well, you are the judge of that. 
Anyway I’ll say no more. I’ve said enough—perhaps 
too much. But I want to out with another thing—I’ll 
let the whole cable run while I am about it. I’m not 
defending Fred. God knows he’s to blame and the only 
one to blame, and he knows what I think. But, my dear, 
he’s young and he married very young. He fell in love 
with your eyes, Kitty, before he had had his splash. And 
he’s almost as good-looking—confound him !—as the young 
spark here, and he’s Ellingham and all that, and the 
women fall over one another for him.” 

“And it is not his fault, of course!” My lady’s tone 
was as cold as contempt could make it. “You talk—you 
talk as if it was my fault that he—oh, you make me sick !” 
She turned her back on the Captain and rested her hands 


o4 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


on the mantel shelf. Her raised foot tapped the fender. 

“No, it’s his fault,” the Captain said. “And a con- 
founded fool he is, and some day he will find it out—per- 
haps when it is too late. But és 

“Well ?” 

“He loves you.” 

“Loves me? Loves me?” She turned about, her face 
white with passion, her eyes gleaming. “Loves me—and 
Lady Fanny! And that woman—at Maidenhead! And 
the creature that he—oh!” she cried, struggling with 
the indignation that choked her, “‘you flatter me! You 
flatter me too highly, George! Loves me? When his 
love, sir, is an insult! An outrage. A thing that makes 
all worse and no better. How is it possible that he should 
love me and go after—after those creatures ?” 

“Because he’s a man, my dear.” The Captain spoke 
with care, choosing his words. “And can love in half a 
dozen ways and half a dozen women at once. But don’t 
think that he has ever ceased to love you, or loves another 
woman in the same way. And he’s not—God knows I 
am not defending him, and he’s bad enough—but he’s not 
as black as he’s painted. Of course’—the Captain looked 
ill at ease as he broached this part of his argument—“if 
he’d been a Joseph there’d have been no Lady Fanny and 
no Miss—well, I won’t name names, and I wish you didn’t 
know them! But Joseph’s part isn’t an easy part to play 
for a man in Fred’s place, my lady, and ig 

“Oh, don’t—don’t say any more!” she cried, stopping 
her ears. “Unless you mean to make bad worse. Are 
these—are these things to say to a wife? ‘To the mother 
of his children? ‘To the girl whom he took from her home 
at eighteen and——” 

“They are not things to be said by everybody,” the 
Captain agreed soberly. “But they are things that some- 
one ought to say to you—God knows I only want to keep 
the way open between you against the time when he will 
want to come back. And they are things that only an 








BROTHER AND SISTER 95 


old friend can say. However, if you think, my dear, that 
I am sailing under false colours ” He broke off. 

She stood for a full minute with her back to him, looking 
down into the heart of the fire; and he saw her shoulders 
heave. And, knowing her pride, he was scared. But pres- 
ently she seemed to regain control of herself, and when 
she turned to him, though her lips quivered, there was a 
smile of unspeakable sweetness in her eyes. 

“Yes, George, under the falsest colours,” she said. 

SKaitty!? 

“Hiding under your sea-cloak the kindest heart that ever 
beat! A friend? Yes, the best friend, the truest friend 
that an unhappy woman ever had! How indeed should I 
have borne these three years since he—since he changed, if 
J had had no friend, no support, no one to take my side, 
to speak between us! And don’t think,” she went on with 
energy, “that I don’t know—for I have seen enough and 
learned enough of the world’s vileness in three years—that 
I don’t know that some in your place—ay, many—would 
have played another part? Would have seen in my loneli- 
ness—and God knows that I have been lonely enough !— 
only an occasion, an opportunity!” She paused, strug- 
gling with her emotion. 

“Of course there are scoundrels enough,” he said gloom- 
ily. “We’re never out of hail of them ashore. But you 
don’t think, Kitty, that I ever 4 

“Never! Never, George, thank God! You have been to 
both of us the best, the truest of brothers. You have the 
right to say anything, all that you will, and I will hear it 
gratefully, oh most gratefully !” 

“Then do you believe me, my dear,” he replied quietly, 
“when I say that he is not as black as he is painted. But 
he is foolish enough to set his pride, once he broke with 
you, on seeming worse than he is. He’s that kind of fool. 
But with it all he has never ceased to love you, and Vl 
wager a guinea to a ship-biscuit, there are times when he 
could cut his throat with thinking of the old days. And 








96 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


some time he’ll come back to you, as to his last port, and 
ask you to save him. And—and Kitty, it is this I want to 
say to you—don’t make it too hard for him when the time 
comes.” 

But at that her pride revolted. “Oh!” she cried, “you 
ask too much! When he is sated with his lhght-o’-loves I 
am to meet him half way, smile on him, take him back! 
Oh, you are monstrous! No, George, you ask too much! 
And love? He loves me—still? What kind of love can 
that be that leaves me here to eat my heart out while he— 
while he—oh, no—a thousand times no! We are better, 
far better, as we are! Let him keep his Lady Fannys and 
his—TI will not soil my lips with their names. And let me 
keep my self-respect.” 

The Captain was silent, sitting gloomy in his chair. 
He had said his say and had not looked for much more 
at present. ‘“‘Convoy’s sailing wide,” he thought. “But 
they've got their orders, and by and by they’ll come inte 
line.” He had smoked out his cigar, and, as he rose 
to throw the end into the fire, he touched her on the 
shoulder. ‘Well, I’ve fired across your bows, my dear,” he 
said, putting his thought into words. “And the rest is for 
you. But as to that little girl?” 

“With the turn-up nose?” she said with a queer laugh, 
as she surreptitiously dabbed her eyes. “Youve your 
orders as to that too, I suppose.” 

“She deserved something better than she got. And 
you’ll see to it, I am sure.” 

“This is the second time I’ve had to—it was Mr. Girar- 
dot last time.” 

“Oh! So he fe 

“Begged her off? Yes, I was for sending her away 
when I found her here. And now it is you, George.” 

“Well, I am not surprised,” he said slowly. “It’s what 
I should have expected of him. But that’s her look-out. 
You may be sure that I’m not making up to her.” 

“T hope he is not,” my lady said, and her face was grave. 





CHAPTER XI 
THE SURPRISE 


A uiTTLe chit of a governess shedding angry tears in the 
darkness of her room because she has been wronged, and 
excitement will find its vent! A young girl crying pas- 
sionately in the night that she doesn’t care! That she 
doesn’t care! That she is glad to go, glad to leave this 
inhuman place, these cruel people! That it is all for the 
best if it does part her from the—the only being who has 
been kind to her, has been companion, tormentor, tease and 
friend all in one! Not an heroic figure this, that, nursing 
its grievance, will not even take in the meal that Priscilla, 
the schoolroom maid, has placed in pitying mood outside 
the door! 

But, alas, with the morning light a figure grown even 
less heroic—grown pale and dull and heavy-eyed. For 
when indignation, a fine warming fire, sinks to grey ashes 
it casts a chill. A pitiful chit, this, that, on second 
thoughts, does care: that sees before her a long miserable 
journey, and a tale of failure to be told at the end of it! 
That, as she tries to swallow her breakfast, chokes, be- 
cause—though it is of course all for the best—she will 
never again break her fast in this dull little room that he 
has made bright. Because she will never again hear his 
step in the passage, see him enter with quizzing eyes, hear 
his gay laugh, his errand—that is but to droll with her, 
or cheer her, to make some pleasant appointment, to drop 
a laughing flattering word that brings the blood to her 
face. 

Yes, it is all for the best, she tells herself. But how 

97 


98 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


flat and grey, endless and unbroken is the vista before her! 
How low her heart as she faces it, and with unwilling eyes 
stares down its length! She will return to her home, but 
the thought has lost its joy. Home itself has lost its warm 
hues, its welcoming face, its charm. 

Priscilla’s voice roused her from her reverie. Priscilla 
had entered to take away. “You didn’t see her ladyship’s 
note, miss?” 

“Oh!” The three-cornered note had lain beside her 
plate, but, absorbed in her wretchedness, she had not seen 
it. Her heart fluttered as she took it to the window that 
she might read it unwatched. And yet—she hastened to 
tell herself—it was no doubt only to say when her lady- 
ship would see her. 

But the note said more than this, and warmth stole 
through the desolate heart as she read it. “Lady Elling- 
ham regrets that under a misapprehension of the facts she 
blamed Miss South in a manner which she now knows was 
not justified. She desires to recall what was said and 
trusts that Miss South is not the worse for her dangerous 
experience. Lady Ellingham will in the course of to- 
morrow see Miss South, as she desires to learn the details 
of her adventure from her own mouth.” 

It was not over-warm, but, coming from Lady Elling- 
ham, it seemed to Rachel a surprising atonement. The 
past, her wrongs, her mortification, were forgotten, and for 
a moment the future glowed, all changed, transfigured, 
glorified. This dull dear little room was still to be hers— 
her home. She would meet him, see him, hear him. 

Then cold wisdom plucked at her skirts, reminded her 
and warned her. If it were really for the best that she 
should go, she ought to seize on this pretext, slight but 
sufficient. She ought to use it and go. She ought to 
wrest herself from the cunning spell that held her in its 
toils and that a few hours ago seemed to her awakened 
eyes to promise nothing but unhappiness. 

But, alas, the spell appeared in another light now, 


THE SURPRISE 99 


wrought differently, wrought speciously, promised not un- 
happiness but—if only she were prudent—the pleasure of 
a dear friendship. She had only—so it assured her—to 
stop herself at that point, and surely she could stop herself. 
Was she her mother’s daughter, and had she not sufficient 
pride and self-respect to control her feelings, and to stay 
where he stayed? Surely she had, surely she was not so 
weak, so unmaidenly, so wanting in pride. And though he 
had said nothing—at this point Rachel’s thoughts grew 
confused and she trembled—was it certain that he—that he 
never would? And was she to make that impossible? To 
put from her the chance of happiness so great that it made 
her giddy, simply because she distrusted her own strength? 

She leant her hot face against the cold panes of the win- 
dow. Of course he meant nothing—nothing! How fool- 
ish she was! Still, was it possible that some day ? 

She plucked herself from the thought, and forced her- 
self to read the letter again. But all tended the same way. 
“Tt was he who spoke for me!” she thought. “Oh, I am 
sure of it. It is to him I owe this!” And her heart 
melted towards him, and was as water. How good he was, 
how staunch, how true! When no one had dared to speak 
for her, he had braved her ladyship’s anger and stood by 
her, and defended her. And made all clear. She had him 
to thank for it. She was sure of it. 

And when, with the letter still in her hand, and 
Priscilla barely gone from the room, she heard Girardot’s 
step, his step that she would have known among a hundred, 
and when he entered, not gaily but with kind and anxious 
looks, was it wonderful that she felt herself tremble? Or 
that he read in her downcast conscious face something that 
he had never read in it before, and at which his heart 
bounded ? 

But he was too wary and too experienced to frighten her, 
and he began as he had planned to begin. “You poor, poor 
little thing!” he said, without a tinge of his usual persi- 
flage. “And I hear that they scolded you, bullied you. 





100 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Oh, it was monstrous, it was barbarous! They must have 
hearts of iron! You had suffered so much, gone through 
so much, a savage would have pitied you! Sit!” He 
pushed up her chair, and, laying his hand on her shoulder, 
he forced her to take it, while her eyes met his in an un- 
conscious plea for forbearance. “Sit, J insist on it!” he 
continued warmly. “I will not hear a word until you do. 
I felt for you—ah, but you know that I felt for you! I 
could not sleep for thinking of their hardness, their in- 
justice !” 

She strove her utmost to struggle against his tenderness, 
against the solicitude that enveloped her as in a warm gar- 
ment, against the melting influence of his voice, his eyes. 
She tried to murmur something—something about his 
kindness, and Lady Ellingham, and strove to say it as she 
would have said it yesterday. But her mood and the man 
and his kindness were all against her, and her pleading eyes 
told a tale in spite of herself. Before she knew how it 
came about he was sitting on the table beside her chair, 
her hand in his; he was soothing her, comforting her. “A 
little, little thing!” he said, leaning over her blushing 
averted face, his voice itself a caress, and with just so much 
of jest in his tone as ightened its meaning. “A little, little 
thing!” he repeated fondly. “Not fit to stand alone!” 

“I think—you did stand by me,” she whispered. But 
oh, the effort it cost her to speak, and the thrill that passed 
from hand to hand, and betrayed itself in the tremor of 
her voice. She could not have raised her eyes or met his 
for her life. 

“Who would not?” he murmured, bending lower over 
her drooping head. “Who could be so hard as not to wish 
to protect you? So little of a man as not to dare to? 
Not I! Not I, Rachel dear! If I had been in his 
place——” 

“Oh, I am glad you were not!” 

“Why? Do you not think that I——” 


THE SURPRISE 101 


“Oh, yes, yes! But you—you might not have had a 
gun!” And she shuddered, thinking of the risk, the dan- 
ger to which he might have exposed himself. 

“But you believe that I would have—don’t you? Ah, 
but you do? Iam sure that you do.” 

“Oh, I know, I know you would.” Her faith was whole, 
simple, perfect. And now, having found courage to speak, 
she found courage to try to recover her hand. “Please!” 
she said. “Please!” 

“Why?” his whisper was sweet in her ears. “Why, 
Rachel? Do you want to escape from me?” 

“But I——” Confusion overcame her as she tried to 
recall her position, her duties, her resolve. “Oh, I must 
not! Indeed, I must not! I ought not to—” 

But he continued to hold her hand, and she knew, God 
knows how, for her eyes were averted, that his lips brushed 
her hair. “I wonder what you must not?” he whispered. 
“You do believe in me? You do believe that I——” 

But at that the maiden in her—though one-half of her 
longed to hear the unspoken word—bade her defer the mo- 
ment. Her modesty rose in revolt, made one last effort 
to escape the crisis. She struggled to her feet, though it 
seemed that she had to raise tons to do so. “I mustn’t 
listen,” she panted. “Indeed, indeed, I must not. Please, 
please let me go!” Her eyes looked everywhere for a way 
of escape. But his lips were near her ear, his whisper 
charmed it, she had not the strength to wrest away her 
hand. 

“Little simpleton!” he said, but his tone emptied the 
words of offence, made them the sweetest of caresses. 
“Why may you not listen, dearest? Why so frightened ?” 

She knew that her strength had left her, but still the 
woman’s instinct to put off the moment and to escape pre- 
vailed. She fluttered as the bird flutters in the tender 
hand that has grasped it. She must not—no, she must not 
listen. “Oh, but I am not here for this!” she stammered 


102 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


distractedly. “It is not right—in my position! Indeed, 
indeed, it is not right! Please let me go! I want to 
think, I want to——” 

“To think, my own?” And how the words thrilled her! 
“No, you want to feel! To feel! We are past thinking, 
my darling! We are on a happier road! We are x! 

A squeak—a small sound, but it rang in her ears like a 
trumpet, for it was the squeak of the baize door. A step 
in the passage! 

“D—n!” the tutor exclaimed. 

He was at the window in two strides, his face almost as 
hot as Rachel’s, but, as his back was to the door when Lady 
Ellingham entered, his figure betrayed nothing. In such 
crises a woman’s aplomb is supposed to surpass a man’s: 
she is credited with higher powers of finesse and conceal- 
ment. But Rachel’s inexperience was on a par with her 
sensibility; her being was shaken to its depths, and she 
could no more have faced the Countess’s eyes at that mo- 
ment than have flown. She could do no more than bend 
her hot face over the book that she had instinctively drawn 
towards her. 

An eye much less acute than my lady’s must have read 
the signs and perceived that she had cut short a scene. 
But Lady Ellingham did not betray save by the flatness 
of her tone that. she remarked anything out of the common. 

“T have followed up my note, Miss South,” she said. 
“But,” pausing, “I see that Mr. Girardot is with you. 
Perhaps, as I have something to say, he will not mind 7 

“T was just going,” he hastened to answer. His tone 
was even, though it lacked his usual sprightliness—he was 
not quite master enough of himself to venture on that. 
“T am afraid,” he added deftly, “that Miss South is still 
suffering from last evening’s shock. It must have been a 
most trying experience.” 

“Yes,” my lady rephed coldly, “it was much to be re- 
eretted. She must be, and I trust she will be, more 
prudent in the future.” 








THE SURPRISE 103 


She had not closed the door behind her, and the tutor, 
unwilling as he was to leave the girl with her, had no 
choice but to take the hint. He said another word or two, 
and bowed himself out, devoutly hoping that Rachel, at 
whom he dared not glance, had recovered a measure of com- 
posure. 

But poor Rachel was very far from composed. She had 
managed to rise to her feet, and she stood with a hand on 
the table; and she did her best to meet her visitor’s gaze. 
But she had not the courage to do so. Even when the door 
had closed behind the tutor and Lady Ellingham asked 
courteously if she might sit, it was in a very small voice 
and with cheeks still glowing that she begged her to do so. 

“And pray be seated yourself, Miss South. You still 
look, as Mr. Girardot said, a good deal overcome. No 
doubt your nerves have not yet recovered from the shock. 
I should have come to see you last evening, but it was late 
when I learned the truth, and I had guests to dinner. I 
trust that you are not really the worse ?” 

But Rachel’s wits were still to find—she was no 
intrigante, poor child, and it was only a broken, confused 
word of acknowledgment that she could frame. 

“At any rate,” my lady said more cordially, “you don’t 
bear malice, I hope? I am forgiven”—with a gracious 
movement of the head—“for my misplaced scolding? Of 
course I had no idea that anything of the kind had oc- 
curred, or I should not have spoken as I did. I am told 
that you behaved with great courage, and were not to 
blame except”—she added with a smile that drew the sting 
from the words—“for the imprudence of returning to the 
forest at so late an hour.” 

It was the first really kind thing that the Countess had 
said to her, and Rachel, a little more herself, thanked her 
with a grateful look. “TI am sorry,” she added shyly, “but 
I knew how much Lady Ann thought of her bracelet.” 

“Well,’? my lady answered with a smile, “you paid 
dearly for your error. And now, if you will be so good, 


104 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


I should like to hear your account. Please tell me what 
happened—from the beginning.” 

Rachel did so, lamely at first, but with growing power 
as she approached the crisis. She made no attempt to 
hide the fears that had assailed her, but she did not dwell 
upon them, and her listener, who had approached the inter- 
view with no strong feeling in her favour, soon found her- 
self sharing the impression which the facts had made on 
her brother-in-law. She began to see the girl in a new 
light. She admitted, with some reluctance, that there was 
more in her than she had judged ; and even owned, with her 
eyes on the candid, artless face, that the child had a cer- 
tain power of attraction. 

“Well, I think you were wonderfully brave,” she re- 
plied, when she had heard all. “And I am thankful that 
no worse came of it—very thankful. But in future, Miss 
South, you must think before you act. If Captain Dun- 
stan had not come up when he did—and it was a million 
chances to one against it—I shudder to think what might 
have happened !” 

Rachel agreed meekly. 

“And now, enough of that,” Lady Ellingham continued. 
“You must put it away and not think of it. But”—her 
tone grew sensibly more formal—“there is a subject on 
which I wish to say a word. You must not take it amiss, 
Miss South, for I think it is my duty to say it. I am not 
finding fault with you, and I am sure that there is no 
ground for fault-finding, but I—I was sorry to find Mr. 
Girardot”—Rachel’s face flamed anew—“with you just 
now. It was natural that he should come to inquire after 
you, and, living as he does in the house, you must meet 
him occasionally. But he is a very attractive young man, 
with some powers of pleasing and no unwillingness to use 
them, and”—Lady Ellingham carefully averted her eyes 
from her governess—“I think it my duty to warn you in 
regard to him. You will be wise, Miss South, if you see 
as little of him as possible. I trust that so far’—she 


THE SURPRISE 105 


could not be insensible to the girl’s increasing distress, 
even though she did not look at her—“that so far there is 
nothing between you?” 

Rachel was miserably conscious that her face betrayed 
her, and between resentment and a natural modesty she 
did not know what to say: whether to admit the truth or 
to refuse to answer. In the end and after a terrible pause, 
“Why,” she faltered, “do you ask me—Lady Ellingham ?” 

“Why, Miss South?” The Countess’s tone was sharp 
with surprise. “Can you ask me? Because in your posi- 
tion: a 

“But am I—hbecause I am ” Rachel could not go on. 
Her voice failed her. But in those half-uttered words she 
voiced, as she meant to voice, the protest of her kind, of 
her class. Because she was what she was—a governess— 
was she to be shut off from the joys of youth, of woman- 
hood, of love, of marriage? Ay, even if they presented 
themselves ? 

Singular to say, the other woman understood her, and 
answered her. “No,” she said, not unkindly. “No, I do 
not say that, though in your position peculiar discretion 
and prudence are expected. No. But because, as I hap- 
pen to know, Mr. Girardot is not in a position to marry, 
and, I am confident has no intention, of marrying. If 
anything therefore has passed between you”—she spoke 
now with more feeling—‘“and I fear, I greatly fear from 
your manner that it is so, he is much, very much to blame. 
And for you, it is well, Miss South, that you are warned 
in time.” 

“But,” Rachel protested—and there was still a note of 
indignation in her tone, for what right had the Countess 
to assume that he was deceiving her—“‘why—why are you 
so certain that—that he——” 

The Countess relieved her from the difficulty of finding 
words. “Has he asked you to marry him?” 

Rachel winced. “No,” she murmured. 

“Has he spoken to you of marriage ?”’ 








106 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“NO 99 


“And he will not, believe me. He has no intention of - 


doing so. And as J do not think so ill of you—indeed, I 
think better of you, Miss South, for I see that you are not 
yet trained to deceive—as to believe that you are capable 
of lstening to him on other terms, I am only doing my 
duty in warning you against him. You are young, 
younger than I thought, and with less experience of the 
world. I give you credit for desiring to conduct yourself 
virtuously ; your family, I am told, is respectable. I do 
not know what has passed between you and Mr. Girardot, 
but I must impress upon you”—and Lady Ellingham spoke 
very seriously now—“‘that no young girl should listen to a 
man, should at any rate let her feelings be known by him, 
until he has declared himself. That, I am confident, Mr. 
Girardot has not done, and will not do. And therefore I 
am sure that you will see the propriety of putting an end 
to this—this trifling at once. Otherwise——” 

But she had no need to pronounce the alternative. The 
mingled gravity and kindness with which she spoke broke 
down the girl’s last resistance. Rachel burst into tears, 
her face hidden on her arms and all attempt at disguise 
laid aside. “I had better go!” she sobbed, her shoulders 
heaving piteously. “I had better go!” 

Lady Ellingham seemed to weigh the suggestion for 
some moments and to consider it dispassionately. But 
after a pause, “No,” she said with deliberation. “I think 
that that is not necessary. I don’t want to lose you, and 
others may have an inkling of this. It will be wiser to 
stay, and by your conduct to prove both to them and to 
him that you respect yourself. You have been frank with 
me, or at least,” she added with a faint smile, “as frank 
as I could expect; and the advice I give you, Miss South, 
is not only the best I can give you, but it proves my con- 
fidence in you. If I thought ill of you, it is not the advice 
I should give you. But I believe that now that your eyes 
are opened you will act as self-respect dictates to you.” 


Py 
> ~ - 
hl te a 


THE SURPRISE 107 


She stood a moment, looking down with a softened face 
at the girl, expecting, perhaps, that she would answer. 
But Rachel had no strength to speak. Humiliation 
whelmed her like a flood; and after a moment’s thought the 
elder woman slowly left the room. A moment later she 
reopened the door, but it was only to say, “Ann will not 
come to you to-day.” 

On the stairs, however, my lady paused. “I think—I 
think she is a good girl,” she reflected. “But I wonder 
if I have done rightly!. The man is in the house. I can- 
not prevent them meeting.” And once she turned as if 
she would go back, and during tnat pause Rachel’s lot in 
this world hung in the balance. But the Countess did not 
go back. 


CHAPTER XII 
In SOCIETY 


ANN sprawled in her chair with her sharp, merciless eyes 
fixed on her governess. “My eye,” she said, “you do look 
a ghost, Miss South. You’re not the same! You look 
like ENingham when he’s cut to the world! You might 
tell me! ‘Tell me about the shock mother says you had! 
And the robbers. The bracelet was mine, and I ought to 
know.” 

“Well,” Rachel replied sharply, “you will not know—at 
any rate in lesson-time. You will go on with your dicta- 
tion. ‘Ces barbares qui espéraient de surprendre la 
ville.’ ” 

“T’ll bet they surprised you, by gum!” Ann muttered 
rebelliously as, with the red tip of her tongue protruding, 
she languidly transcribed the sentence. “You might say 
they did, Miss South?” 

“<Furent eux-mémes surpris et déconcertés. 

But Ann’s pen hung idle. “Were they discon—discon- 
certed,” she asked cunningly, “when Uncle George came 
up ete 

“Take it down at once!” Rachel insisted, tapping the 
table impatiently. 

“Oh, now, you know,” the incurable one protested, 
“mother told you to be patient with me! And you are 
not being patient, you know! You are not the same at 
all. You are quite gashly. One day I thought you nearly 
pretty—only one day, you know,” she added guardedly. 
“But now you are gashly. I hope I shall never have a 
shock to make me ugly.” 


2 99 


108 


IN SUGIERY 109 


“Go on this minute!” Rachel said angrily. “Full stop. 
‘Les sujets d’Alceste, animés par Vexemple et par les 
ordres de Mentor seis 

Ann, her tongue still in evidence, penned the words re- 
luctantly. But that done, “Give this cheek a little red,” 
she whispered impudently. “One would not sure be gashly 
when one’s dead! Yes?” ‘Then, seeing that poor Rachel’s 
thoughts had wandered and that she was not attending, 
“No, you’re not the same at all,” she said. “You’re ever 
so different.” 

And, alas! Ann was right. Rachel was not the same. 
Yesterday hopeful and innocent, a-tiptoe with the quiver- 
ing sense that, within the forbidden chamber on the 
threshold of which she hung expectant, things unknown, 
but beautiful and radiant, might await her. To-day, one 
day older, and yet in that one day apprised—the door 
ajar now—that within the chamber were other things not 
beautiful, not glorious: pangs and aches and jealousy and 
disappointment—clouds that overhung and might in one 
moment ruin the scene. 

She was changed; but not so completely changed that 
even with the door ajar she did not cling to the illusion— 
that she did not try to blind herself to the spectres, of 
which she had had a glimpse. And it is certain that, if 
Lady Ellingham had known when she paused on the stairs 
the direction in which the girl’s thoughts would run dur- 
ing the next twenty-four hours, she would have retraced 
her steps to the schoolroom and revoked her decision. 

For love is an absorbing passion, selfish, exclusive, dom- 
inating, and from the innocent heart of inexperience it is 
hardly to be washed by all the waters of all the seas. For 
the time Rachel had been overwhelmed. The painfulness 
of her position, and shame at hearing her heart’s secret 
discovered in bald words—these and the authority of the 
elder woman had overcome and silenced her. She had 
been unable to resist, unable to protest. And for some 
_ hours she had lain prostrate, crushed by the conviction 





IIO QUEEN’S FOLLY 


that she had deceived herself, that he had but played with 


her and made sport of her—and that henceforth life with 
all its joys and colour was at an end for her. 

And of course she fancied that her heart was broken. 
But not many hours passed before hope began to raise its 
head, and with it faith in her lover. How did Lady 
Ellingham know? How could she know? Memory, at 
once painful and alluring, recalled the fervour of his voice, 
the glow of his eyes, the passion that had enveloped her 
and wrapped her in a delicious confusion—recalled above 
all the caress that had brushed her hair! And no! her 
heart cried, he was not playing with her! He was not de- 
ceiving her! He could not be. She would not believe it. 
He would come to her presently; he would come the mo- 
ment that he could, and he would speak, and she would 
be happy. Yes, he would come to her. A few hours, and 
all would be well, and her heart would sing with joy. 

And he was in the house: there was nothing to keep him 
from her. He might seize any opportunity, he might 
come at any time. And when he came she would be strong, 
she would let no false shame stand between them. Lady 
Ellingham’s cruel words, her plain speaking, had stripped 
her of that. 

Yes, he would surely, surely come! But suspense is 
painful, and doubt more painful still, and even while she 
listened to Ann’s chatter she lost herself in counting the 
hours that had elapsed. For with every succeeding hour 
the question, When would he come? and, presently, Why 
did he not come? pressed more heavily upon her, began to 
harass her and torment her. She lived only in expectation, 
and was alike indifferent to Ann’s pin-pricks, which did 
but tease the surface, and blind and deaf to the happenings 
about her. 

For there were happenings, and a to-do in the house that 
at another time would have excited her. Housemaids 
were lighting fires and flickering in and out of rooms, 
footmen were pressing state-liveries, in the gun-room the 


a 


INV SOCIETY. III 


head ranger was laying out his guns, and in my lady’s 
sitting-room the cook was assuring my lady with a flushed 
face that she would do her justice—but meringues a la 
creme she had never heard of. Everywhere petticoats 
were whisking, brooms sweeping, grooms hissing, chimneys, 
that had not been lighted for many months, smoking ; men 
swearing at maids and maids snapping at men, and a 
mighty confusion of tongues. 

For—rare event!—my lord was coming, and with him 
a party of friends, and there would be great doings and 
deep drinking and banquets and what not: was not the best 
wine being drawn from the cellar, and the service of plate 
being taken from its chest? There would be guests in hall 
as well as in parlour, maids and men, and who knew what 
might not come of it? Even the scullery wench whose 
ears the cook had boxed in her heat about the meringues, 
and who was even now crying over the sink, felt a lift of 
the heart, and an expectation of she knew not what. A 
servant, riding post, had brought the letter that morning, 
and not later than to-morrow my lord might be expected. 

Mrs. Jemmett looked into the dining-room and found 
Bowles dressing the sideboard. He was poising a silver- 
gilt salver on its edge, and, satisfied with his work, glanced 
at her for approval. “Well, it will stir us up a bit, Mrs. 
J.,” he said—“put a bit of life into us.” 

But Mrs. Jemmett did not respond. “I wish good may 
come of it,” she said. 

“Well”—after a glance at the door that assured him it 
was closed—“there’s no knowing and no telling, ma’am, 
while her ladyship has the figure she has. He’ll have seen 
no finer, no, nor face either, wherever he has been! But 
there it is, she’d put her hand in the fire before she’d let 
on to feel anything. It will all be as before: she'll meet 
him in the hall—always takes care to meet him before us, 
ma’am—and it’ll be ‘Hallo, Kitty! blooming as usual, my 
lady! and ‘I fear you have had a cold journey!’ from 
her. And no more until the parson comes drunk into the 


112 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


drawing-room and her ladyship sweeps out, so stiff that, 
damme, Mrs. J., you could hear her train crackle!” 

“‘Where’s he coming from this time?” 

“Them Barrymores.” 

“By Maidenhead ?” 

“Well,” cautiously, “it might not be far off.” 

Mrs. Jemmett sniffed virtuously. “There never come 
no good of that lot, woman or man. I suppose my lady 
knows ?” 

“Oh, la, yes, and very pinched about the lips when she 
give her orders. But there, you can’t wonder: my lord’s 
young, and there’s all sorts going on there, dancing and 
dicing and drinking, and % 

“And worse!” said Mrs. Jemmett severely. ‘I’m sur- 
prised at you, Bowles, taking his side!” She took herself 
off. 

Bowles spared a moment to look after her. “Ah, 
woman, woman!” he said, shaking his head sapiently. 
“They sticks together, and there’s where they has it over 
us.” 

But to Rachel all this meant little; and less as the hours 
passed, and that which she expected, that which she had so 
fondly, so confidently expected, did not happen. With ears 
ever on the stretch for the squeak of the baize door, her 
heart hungered for the step that she knew so well. A 
sound, no matter what, and the blood flew to her face! 
But he did not come, and her heart grew hour by hour 
more sick with hope deferred. And gradually a feeling 
which was not far from resentment began to stir within 
her. That day passed, and the night, and half of the 
next day; and, though her heart pleaded a hundred ex- 
cuses for him, it was impossible to think that he had not 
opportunities, that he could not fly to her side if he wished 
to fly, that he could not come if he wished to come. Why 
did he keep away from her if he was true? 

Then, about noon on that third day, when her heart 
was very low indeed, and she was moping with a pale face, 





IN; SOCIE LY. 113 


pretending to occupy herself she knew not how, a message 
was brought to her, and she learned that after all Lord 
Ellingham’s coming was to be something to her. 

“Tf you please, miss, her ladyship desires you will be 
in the drawing-room after dinner this evening,” Priscilla 
announced, her eyes big with her message, “as her lady- 
ship’s alone.” 

“Alone?” Rachel exclaimed, taken aback. 

“As there’s no other ladies, miss.” 

She was very miserable, but she was young, and the 
prospect offered a change. Still it was but sadly and 
slowly that she went about her preparations, getting out 
the white muslin and the black sash—the blue sash she 
had no heart to wear; and she sighed often. She was 
almost glad that her glass reflected a pale, woe-begone 
face. To the new experience that lay immediately before 
her she told herself that she was worse than indifferent, 
that it held neither hope nor fear for her. What mattered 
it how she looked! 

But as she descended the grand staircase that evening, 
a little slender figure with brooding eyes and hair too 
heavy for her small head, she found that this was not so. 
She discovered that she still had nerves. The hall with 
its hurrying servants, and the murmur of voices behind 
closed doors, increased the feeling; and when she crept 
into the reception-rooms which she had hardly entered 
since the day after her arrival, and saw their stately length 
lt by innumerable wax candles, their two fires burning in 
silence, and the glitter and splendour of the uncovered 
furniture, shyness grew into awe. She seated herself on 
a low chair in a modest place beyond the farther hearth, 
and sank under the sense of her insignificance. She was 
nothing in this great house—nothing to him, nothing to 
anyone! 

For half an hour she sat alone, and no sound except the 
crackling of a burning log broke the long, vacant splendour 
of the room. Then a door opened without, she caught a 


114 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


burst of laughter, the hum of voices. A servant threw 
wide the door of the room in which she sat, and my lady 
swept in, proud, superb, impassive. 

Nevertheless Lady Ellingham’s first action belied her 
looks and surprised the watcher. She paused before a 
mirror and deliberately, almost scornfully, surveyed her- 
self. Apparently she was not satisfied, though to Rachel’s 
eyes she looked gloriously handsome. She set a curl 
straight, pressed home a comb, raised her dress a trifle on 
one shoulder. Then she glided on, acknowledged Rachel’s 
curtsy by an unsmiling nod and, taking up a book, she 
seated herself at some distance from the girl. “You had 
better find a book,” she said, and, dropping her eyes on 
the page before her, she became lost in thought. 

An hour, a long tedious hour passed, while the girl 
now wondered impatiently why she had been summoned, 
now relapsed into her own sad reflections. 'Then at last 
a tumult of voices burst forth, scattered steps crossed the 
hall, and a crowd of men—a crowd it seemed to Rachel, 
who knew none of them—streamed into the room. A 
young dandy, flushed, bright-eyed and confident, led the 
way ; in his ear an older man, tall, dark, spare, buttoned-up, 
dropped the last word of some cynical tale. A second 
dandy, stouter and more full-blown, followed, and behind 
him a parson, moist-eyed and red about the gills, was 
urged in by the last comer, on whom Rachel, guessing that 
he was Lord Ellingham, bent her attention. She was 
curious to divine what he was like, of whom such strange 
things had been hinted, and involuntarily she liked his 
looks. His handsome face—he appeared to be little above 
thirty—wore some of the marks of dissipation, but they 
were not yet stamped deeply upon it, and his smile was 
boyish, quizzical, kindly. 'To judge by it he found the 
present situation droll. He had a little the air of a bad 
boy who awaits the result of a naughty trick, with more 
interest in the event than fear of the results. 

The first comers moved over to Lady Ellingham—a little 


IN SOCIETY II5 


diffidently and uncertainly, Rachel thought. But she 
ceased to notice them, her attention being caught by an ex- 
clamation that fell from the parson. “Damme, who’s the 
filly ?” he hiccoughed, “I didn’t know that you kept a 

My lord silenced him with something like an oath, and 
pushed him away towards the pianoforte. “Here, you 
are safest there!” he said, dropping a laughing eye on 
Rachel. “Go, sing, canary, sing!” 

“We're good boys to-night, ” the young dandy began, 
pulling out the ruffle of his shirt, and addressing Lady 
Ellingham. “The landlord whipped us in, and George 
cut off the skirters.” His eyes travelled to Rachel, in- 
spected her and returned. They fell on my lady’s book. 
“That’s ‘Castle Rackrent,’ T bet a penny! Know the cover. 
See it everywhere. Monstrous good book!” 

““A remarkable book for a girl to write,” Lady Ellingham 
said. 

“In her thirties,” corrected the tall spare man. 
“Father’s a bore—pon my honour, insufferable!’ He 
had taken his stand with his back to the fire, and was 
calmly appraising “‘the filly.” 

By this time, my lord had got the parson to the piano, 
and he left him and strolled up to the others. His eyes 
met Rachel’s and he gave her a smiling nod, but did not 
approach her. “Good boys all, Kitty,” he said. “Best be- 
haviour, this evening.” 

“But—the nearer the church, the farther from her 
ladyship!” murmured Colonel Ould, the man on the 
hearth, with a glance at the clergyman, who was fumbling 
with the music. 

The dandy laughed. “I’m not sure that I ought not to 
be in a middle-hell,” he said, with a smothered hiccough. 
He was little more than a boy. 

“Perhaps safer to sit down,” said the Colonel. 

“Yes, sit down, Bobbie,’ my lord said, and seizing him 
by the shoulders pressed him into a chair. “Now, Fil- 
mer,” to the parson, “pipe up! When the tea comes c 








116 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Tt will mend the man but spoil the voice !’”’ said Ould. 

“Meantime, my lady, give us some credit,’ my lord 
continued, looking whimsically at Rachel, it might be, 
to see how she took the conversation. “Ah! Here comes 
George! Bad boy, wouldn’t leave his bottle!” 

“You be hanged!” said the Captain. “Kitty knows 
better! Hallo!” standing with his hands in his pockets 
and viewing the parson at the piano. “Can he sing?” 

“Better when he’s cut than when he’s sober!” 

“Ay, but what will he sing?” 

“Perhaps the young lady will play for him,” Ould sug- 
gested. He took a seat by Lady Ellingham, turning a 
shoulder on the rest of the company. “The governess? 
Indeed? Is she?” he murmured, raising his eyebrows. 
“T was wondering.” 

“What ?” 

“Whether your ladyship was guarding the young lady, 
or the young lady was playing sheep-dog to your ladyship.” 

“Tf there are wolves abroad,” the Countess said negli- 
gently, “I do not think they are wearing their own skins, 
Colonel Ould. At any rate I do not think their teeth 
are very formidable.” 

Lord Robert—he was the young dandy—overheard the 
answer and giggled, but his laugh was lost in the first 
notes of a fine tenor voice. Not for nothing was the par- 
son dubbed “the Canary.” 


“Yes, loving is a painful thrill, 
And not to love more painful still. 
But, oh, it is the worst of pain 
To love and not be loved again!” 


Words which chimed in so unpleasantly with their secret 
thoughts might have painfully affected two of his listeners 
if the singer had not become maudlin with the last line. 
His head drooped over the keys in a manner so absurd that 
even Lady Ellingham joined in the laughter that rewarded 


IN SOCIETY 117 


him. “Go on, dear dying duck!” cried Bobbie. “Put 
the tears into it!” 


“Affection now has fled from earth, 

Nor fire of genius, noble birth 

Nor heavenly virtue can beguile 

From beauty’s cheek one favouring smile.” 


But at that point the singer broke down and wept real 
tears.—“Too, too touching!” he maundered. “Too touch- 
ing!” 

“Too, too full!” said the Captain bluntly. “But thank 
heaven it’s no worse. Lord knows what he might have 
sung!” And as the procession bearing tea came in, he 
moved across to Rachel. 

“All taut again, eh, Miss South? Ship-shape and none 
the worse, I hope?” 

Rachel, aware that all eyes were on her, murmured shyly 
that she was none the worse. 

“Well, it was the devil of an adventure!” returned the 
Captain. “They nearly cut you out, by gad!” 

“An adventure?” Lord Robert cried, pricking up his 
ears. “What was it? And who was the knight errant?” 

“Well, luckily for Miss South, he was not a carpet 
knight, Bobbie, like you.” 

“Oh, that’s not fair!” said Bobbie, unabashed. “But 
come, I say, let us hear the adventure !” 

Lady Ellingham interposed. “Another time,” she said. 
“Spare us who have heard it. Miss South, will you make 
the tea?” And Rachel, perforce and with a flushed face, 
rose and went to the side-table. 

Lord Robert, however, was not to be put off. “I’m a 
great hand at holding the cups,” he lisped, and he rose to 
follow. But my lord cheerily thrust him down in his 
seat again. 

“You'll have enough to do to carry your own!” he said, 
and himself followed Rachel. He stood smiling down at 


118 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


her. ‘Find Ann a handful?” he said, bridging in a mo- 
ment the distance between them, and speaking as if he 
had known her all his life. 

“T do, rather,” she murmured. 

“Regular bag of tricks, eh! Calls me Ellingham, and 
the other day, because she did not win at speculation, 
threw the cards in my face. I ought to have spanked 
her,” he continued with his eyes on the little head bent 
shyly over the teapot. “But no doubt she’ll be growing 
wings now. Heard all sorts of good things of you, Miss 
South—from George, you know.” 

She looked up, and he saw that she did not understand. 

“My brother,” he explained. “Your knight-errant, you 
know,” he added with a mischievous smile. 

TOb. DT wins ” But she did not finish her sen- 
tence. Her glance in falling from his face had met Lady 
Ellingham’s eyes, and Lady Ellingham was looking at 
her with so odd, so hard an expression, that it startled her. 
“T will take Lady Ellingham her tea,” she said, rising 
hurriedly. 

“No, that’s my business. Or—here, Bobbie! Take 
Kitty her tea if you are steady enough! No, parson, no,” 
as Filmer, hazy and stuttering, wavered up to the tea- 
board and stood regarding the two with roguish eyes. 
“You are a cup too full. Sheer off, man, and find another 
port, as George says.” 

But the parson was too far gone to take a hint, however 
broad. He goggled at them. “’Nother little lady, eh? 
>Nother pretty little lady! And my lady looking this way! 
Oh, fie, fie!’ 

“Sink it, you d—d fool!” my lord said in another tone. 

“Oh! oh!” raising his hands in tipsy reprehension. 
“Mustn’t swear before the cloth! Bad—bad form!” 

“Miss South!” my lady’s clear, cold voice rose above 
the murmur, “if you have had your tea, I think we 
will ” She rose without completing the sentence. 

Colonel Ould rose also, looking anything but pleased. 








IN SOCIETY IIQ 


He had flattered himself that he was succeeding with the 
Countess, and he ventured to remonstrate. ‘“Don’t— 
don’t be so cruel!” he said in a low tone. ‘“Won’t you stay 
ten minutes more, ma'am?” Then, seeing that she per- 
sisted, and with a glance at the group about the tea-table, 
“Oh, I see,’ he added in the same tone but with a meaning 
smile. “I see! Too bad! Really too bad! Incor- 
rigible !” 

If my lady understood the insinuation she betrayed it 
only by the depth of her curtsy and the coldness of her 
look. She disengaged herself, gathered up Rachel by a 
gesture, and, with a chilly word or two as she passed 
the other men, she swept from the room. 

And thus closed, rather abruptly, Rachel’s first evening 
in society. 

Three hours later in another room the men were break- 
ing up. On a table, amid lights that had burned down 
to the sockets, lay dice and casters and a medley of glasses. 
The parson snored heavily on a couch, his neckeloth 
loosened and one arm dangling to the floor. Captain 
Dunstan was engaged in lighting candles at a side table. 
The other men stood here and there, yawning and waiting 
for them. “Neat little girl!” said Ould thoughtfully. 
“Eh, Fred ?” 

“A d—d plucky little girl!” the Captain struck in. 
And, while they stood about, he told the story of the 
bracelet. 

“Then you are first in the field, George,” Ould com- 
mented. “And a good thing too,” he continued with a 
glance at “the landlord.” “Take it from me, Fred, you 
should never have ’em in the house. Never does, master 
and maid. By the way, have you got that handsome boy- 
switcher still?” 

“Girardot? Yes, youll see him to-morrow. Why?” 
my lord asked rather shortly. 

“Well, if I were you I wouldn’t keep him either. Same 
principle—never does.” 


120 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Why 9? 

“Why? Why, too good-looking by half to have about 
the place. Nature abhors a—you know the rest. True 
old tag, though we learned it at school. Id see his back 
if I were you!” 

“Why?? It was the Captain who this time asked the 
question, and he thrust himself forward rather roughly. 

“Oh!”—with a yawn. “Before harm comes of it. He 
might”—with an ugly smile—“he might cut you out 
with the little filly, George!” But that was not what he 
had had in his mind. 

And the Captain knew that it was not, and said so. “I 
don’t believe you meant that!” he said. 

“There, let’s have no brabbling!” my lord struck in good- 
humouredly. “We can none of us count the candles or 
say Meso-Mesopotamia! To bed! To bed! Who'll see 
the parson to his downy ?” 

The Captain volunteered, and the party, with some hug- 
ging of the door-posts, steered their way up the stairs 
and along the passages. 


CHAPTER XIII 
A Court oF LOVE 


It would be vain to deny that the glimpse that she had en- 
joyed of another life had to some extent distracted Rachel’s 
thoughts from her own troubles; it would be equally vain 
to say that the command which Lady Ellingham had is- 
sued, as she ascended the stairs, that the girl should appear 
the next evening, did not divert her mind. But between 
times—and never had time passed more slowly—she suc- 
cumbed to the old spell. She felt her heart leap with 
every footfall that passed the swing-door—and passed it, 
alas, only to tantalise her. She pined, she sickened with 
hopes ever thwarted. And though with the passage of 
each hour expectation sank lower, and a wholesome resent- 
ment, pricked into life by pride and self-respect, began 
to stir within her, Girardot’s image still dominated, still 
possessed her. 

For only now, when she sat alone and neglected, did 
she understand how large a part in her life from day to 
day, in her anticipations from morrow to morrow, he had 
played. Only now did she grasp what feelings new and 
powerful he had awakened in her, how closely he had 
wound himself about her heart, how strong a spell his 
handsome face, his gay laugh, his voice, now tender, now 
teasing, had cast over her fancy! 

She was a fool—oh, she was a fool: she told herself so 
a hundred times. But, alas! she knew now that she was 
also a woman. She was pale, languid, and heavy-eyed, 
caring for one thing only, and so low in energy that to 
attend to Ann was like heaving an immense weight from 

121 


122 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


the ground. She vowed that were she once sure, once 
certain that he meant nothing, that he was but playing 
with her, she could pluck him from her heart. But in 
the silence and solitude of the schoolroom she was not 
sure even of that. She shrank before the grey, monoto- 
nous, dreary prospect of a life, a long life, spent without 
him. 

Still, when she descended to the drawing-room on this 
second evening, resentment had made some way with her 
—for how could she, how could he explain his silence, 
his avoidance? The wounded dove will peck and the 
wounded heart will turn, though feebly; and Rachel had, 
girl as she was, a spirit. She had taken care to descend 
later than on the previous evening, and she found Lady 
Ellingham already in the room and to all appearance ab- 
sorbed in a book. ‘Taking the hint she stole softly to a 
chair, and opened the volume that she had brought with 
her, and for some minutes silence reigned. But presently, 
happening to raise her eyes, she saw her companion’s face 
reflected in a mirror, and with a tremor—for she could 
fancy on what my lady’s thoughts turned—she perceived 
that she was being inspected. She dropped her eyes to 
her book, but the attraction was irresistible—there had 
been something dark and magnetic in the other’s eyes— 
and presently she had to look again. Her ladyship was 
still at gaze, but this time she seemed to think it neces- 
sary to speak. 

“You look pale, Miss South,’ she said. “Are you not 
well ?” 

“T have a slight headache,” Rachel confessed, though 
indeed, had she spoken truly, she had said heart-ache. 
“Tt is nothing, thank you.” 

“T hope that nothing more has occurred to disturb you?” 

“Oh no,’ Rachel answered. “Nothing.” But she col- 
oured, and in her embarrassment she longed ior the door 
across the hall to open, longed to hear the hum of voices, 
the riotous entry that would release her from scrutiny. 


A COURT OF LOVE 123 


It was without warning or sound, however, that the door 
did open a minute later. It opened, and he came in, and 
in a moment the pride, of which she had begun to despair 
—so little had it aided her—came to her succour. The 
heart, that for an instant beat so tumultuously that it 
threatened to choke her, steadied itself, and she raised 
her eyes to meet his, marvelling at her self-possession. 
It helped her a little that the tutor did not discover her 
presence at once. He took the Countess to be alone, and 
he moved towards her, a smile—a smile that hardened the 
girl in her resentment—on his face. 

“In season, dear lady, I trust?” he said gaily. “And 
neither too early nor too late? I fancy the company are 
only at their second *? There he broke off. His eyes 
had travelled to Rachel, he had become aware of her, and 
something in her face or in the silence of the room struck 
home to him, so that even his aplomb failed him. Then, 
“Oh, I did not know,” he resumed with a laugh a little 
forced. “I flattered myself that I should be the single 
swallow. And I see that it is already summer.” 

“Tf Miss South makes a summer.” 

He had spoken the first glib words that occurred to him, 
without thought of their implications. He saw now that 
he must follow them up, and with an attempt at his usual 
tone, “I will not be so bold,” he repled with a bow, “as 
to say who makes the summer.” 

Lady Ellingham’s eyes were bright with mischief. 
“No? Really? Then you do not decide between us? I 
am not sure, Miss South, which of us should feel the more 
flattered.” 

“T think,” Rachel said, and she wondered at her own 
calmness, “that your ladyship uses the right word.” 

The Countess returned the ball adroitly. “Dear me,” 
she replied, “you don’t say so? You really surprise me, 
Miss South! You speak as if you did not credit Mr. 
Girardot with meaning all the fine things that he says 
to us.” 





124 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


He knew, and he had known from the first, that between 
the two he was in an awkward position; for who can court 
two women to their faces? And no doubt he cursed the 
unlucky impulse that had led him to enter before the 
diners. But he had to make the best of it, and “Oh, but,” 
he protested lightly, though for once he coloured, “Miss 
South, I am sure, knows me better than that.” 

“Better than I do, you mean?” my lady said. 

“Well, if not so long ti 

“No, not so long,” my lady assented, smiling always. 
“That is true. And perhaps not so well. But still well 
enough to put a true value, it seems, on the coinage you 
mint. Now I wonder, Miss South. whether he ever calls 
you ‘dear lady’? If so, that, I can assure you, means 
nothing.” 

“Nothing?” he protested, striving stoutly to rally. 
“Oh, don’t say that! Rather the most respectful, the 
most sincere homage, dear lady.” 

“Nothing but a compliment, Miss South. It cannot,” 
my lady’s voice hardened slightly, “since he often uses it 
to me, and so it can mean no more. He uses it as i 

“As he uses painted quills sometimes,” Rachel said, with 
a coolness that was an immeasurable surprise to herself. 

“Painted quills!” Lady Ellingham was puzzled. For 
the first time and not understanding, she turned her ban- 
tering eyes from him, and looked at the governess. 

“Lady Ann is not yet open to flattery,” Rachel ex- 
plained. Her courage, her pose, were a continuing amaze- 
ment to herself. 

The Countess laughed. “Oh, I see. Very clever of 
you, Miss South! Very clever! Of course! I forgot 
that Ann also was of the sex and open to attack.” 

Baited by both he tried to fall back on his mock-serious 
tone. “So this is your gratitude,” he exclaimed, address- 
ing Rachel. “Oh, ma’am, for shame! When I remember 
how many easy mornings, how much good behaviour, I 








A COURT OF LOVE 125 


purchased with those quills, how many days of prunes 
and prisms I bought for you 

But my lady broke in. “I see! I see!” she cried. 
“Then doubtless I too was beside the target! And his 
compliments to me, and his gifts to Ann were alike for 
your benefit, Miss South?” 

“T am infinitely obliged to him,” Rachel said. But her 
heart was beginning to melt. What a return, oh, what a 
return she was making to him! 

“And no more?” the Countess rejoined in mock sur- 
prise. “No more than that?” 

“No, no more,” Rachel said steadily, but the effort was 
almost too much for her. “Though I must admit”—what 
devil of ingratitude was speaking in her stead ?—“that he 
also mended a great many pens for us.” 

The Countess laughed. “Now, Mr. Girardot! Now, it 
is your turn. Say something about the ingratitude of 
the fair, will you? It seems to me that it would be 
appropriate.” 

But for once the tutor, who was wont to ee so self- 
possessed, had nothing to say. He could only look foolish. 
And it was Rachel who with desperate audacity—but the 
pride that had suffered seemed to take possession of her, 
and to oust her will—it was Rachel who took the word, 
and gave the coup de grace. “Oh, but I forgot,” she said. 
“He has also pressed my hand, Lady Ellingham. I be- 
heve that I ought to have been offended, though I knew 
that it was but a compliment. But you came into the 
room at the moment and Mr. Girardot 

“Went out!” Lady Ellingham laughed softly. “Oh, 
Mr. Girardot, you naughty, naughty philanderer! Do, 
Miss South, look at him! He is positively blushing and 
no wonder! Compliments, quills, and hand-pressings— 
and Ann his only conquest !” 

He was, indeed, utterly out of countenance, for the im- 
pudent when abashed are the most abashed; and unable 








126 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


to relieve his feelings by the oath that rose to his lips, 
he could maintain his easy tone no longer. “Your lady- 
ship is pleased to amuse yourself,” he said with an air of 
offence. His vanity was wounded to the quick. 

“But haven’t we all been amusing ourselves,” she asked 
innocently, “except Ann? Of course, I forgot Ann. And 
didn’t you come in this evening to amuse me, had I been 
alone, Mr. Girardot? As it is, and Miss South being with 
me, you have amused us both, as was right.” 

There was bitter meaning in his next words. “Cer- 
tainly, it is long since I have heard your ladyship laugh 
as much,” he said. “And Miss South does not laugh now.” 

Rachel dropped her eyes to her book. Oh, what had 
she done and what—what demon of pride had driven her 
to it? But as she had begun she must finish, though it 
pierced her heart to wound him further. And so, thus 
challenged, she looked up, she met his eyes. “No, Mr. 
Girardot,’ she said soberly. “I do not laugh because— 
the game was new to me. I did not at once comprehend 
it and I was a little out of my depth. Lady Hllingham, 
however, has been good enough to give me a lesson, and 
I now understand the rules. But it is a game,” her voice 
trembled, “I do not care to play and perhaps’—ah, was 
she casting away her last hope, her last chance of happi- 
ness ?—“‘perhaps for the future you will kindly confine 
the quills, sir, to Ann—who does appreciate them.” 

“Brava!” said her ladyship—but she too spoke more 
gravely. “Now as to Miss South you have fair warning, 
sir. I, on the contrary, am an old player, and you may 
call me ‘dear lady’ as often as you think proper and always 
with the proviso that it means respectful homage—that I 
think was the term you used! But for the rest—oh 
dear, here they come and we must be serious again.” 

But it was only the Captain whose approach she had 
heard, and he entered, looking a little flushed and shame- 
faced. He cast a sharp glance at the three and nodded 
to Lady Ellingham. “Better pipe below, Kitty!” he said. 


A COURT OF LOVE 127 


“And go to bed. They are fairly settled down to it, and 
when they come out ” He shrugged his shoulders, 
and left the rest to be understood. 

The Countess raised her eyebrows. “Thank you,” she 
said. “No one else would have thought of us. Miss 
South, you are released, good night. Mr. Girardot—L 
think my fan is on that table. Will you look? No, it 
must be on the other. Is it not there? One moment, if 
you please! Oh, yes, I have it. Good night.” 

When the two had retired—severally and not together, 
she had seen to that—“What was afoot?” the Captain 
asked. “I thought that Master Girardot looked a little 
queer. What was it, eh?” 

“Oh, not much,” my lady said wearily. “Nothing of 
importance. We have been holding a court and convicting 
an offender. But I wish—I wish I understood that girl. 
She has a command of herself that—that’s not natural, 
if she is as young and innocent as she seems. I can’t make 
her out. Sometimes I like her, and sometimes I doubt 
her.” 

“Well, I don’t think she is a common kind of craft.” 

“No, I agree. She is clever, so clever and so demure 
with it, that who is to say, George, what she is? She 
may be deceiving us all the time.” 

“Oh, tell that to the Marines!” he answered. “I 
thought you had got that notion out of your head, Kitty, 
once and for all.” 

“But last night I noticed that he——” 

“Pooh, pooh! A pretty face and a new one!” 

“But has she a pretty face?” 

“If you ask me, no! Stand beside her and look in the 
glass, my dear, if you want to be sure.” 

“But Lord Robert seemed to be taken with her!” 

“Bobbie? Bobbie would flirt with a petticoat hung on 
the anchor-fluke, if it was new to him! As for that little 
baggage, well, she is but a child after all. But the point 
is—Fred! You are wronging him, my lady, and I tell 





128 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


you so! You are wronging him, Kitty. He is bad 
enough God knows, but not bad enough for what you sus- 
pect, and for heaven’s sake get it out of your head! And 
wear a smooth face to-morrow. ‘This shall not occur 
again if I can help it, and it is not altogether Fred’s fault. 
He can’t stop the bottle in the company he’s in.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a company of his 
own choosing,” she said with a sombre face. 


CHAPTER XIV 
ANNA FURENS 


THE morning found Rachel listless and heart-weary. She 
had played out the game that pride dictated to her, and 
she had won back her self-respect if, she thought bitterly, 
it were worth winning back. She had punished her lover 
—if he were indeed her lover! But twice in the course 
of dressing she gave way to passionate fits of weeping, 
and, as she remembered the return that she had made 
to him, and what he must now be thinking of her, she 
writhed in torment. Yet since there is to all feeling a 
limit, a gloomy apathy presently supervened, and took 
the place of the fever that had consumed her. 

Certainly it was on a world in sympathy with her dark 
thoughts, that having set out the books and marked the 
place in Télémaque—hateful work—she gazed from the 
window as she awaited Ann’s coming. The sky was 
leaden, the sward brown and frost-bitten. The stately 
oaks that in the summer had raised majestic heads of 
foliage and ruled each its space of verdure, now stood 
naked and far apart, swept by the cutting wind that rustled 
through the beds of dead fern. Gnarled thorns that had 
seen generations of hunters pass beneath them, preached 
from a hundred bristling points the lesson of stark endur- 
ance in a hard world. And Rachel shivered as she gazed. 
It was so that she saw life this morning; grey, cheerless, 
solitary and stretching far, its bourne lost in mist. She 
longed to be alone to weep her fill, to wash away with 
bitter tears the remembrance of her cruelty and in- 
gratitude. 

That could not be. For here, noisy, tumultuous, racing 

129 


130 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


along the passage were the children; not Ann only, but 
her brother. They burst in, the boy leading and capering 
in triumph. “I’m to shoot!” he shouted. “Hurrah! 
I’m to shoot! Vm to shoot with the party.” 

“Then ’m going too!” the girl retorted jealously, and 
fell upon him, beating him with her hood. Evidently the 
battle had been joined below, and she was in her most 
truculent mood. “You don’t go without me!” 

“You! You are a Jenny!” he taunted, putting the 
table between them and still dancing up and down. 
“Girls don’t shoot. What would you do witha gun? You 
are only a Jenny! She is not going with us, is she, Miss 
South ?” 

Before Rachel could speak Ann rushed at him and he 
fled round the table, throwing down a chair. Rachel tried 
in vain to part them and only succeeded when Ann 
stopped, out of breath. “Miss South!” she gasped, “say 
that I am to go. I am to go too, ain’t 1?” 

“Tf your mother wishes you to go, certainly.” 

“But she doesn’t!” the boy retorted. “She says you'd 
be in the way, you silly, and of course you would. You 
are only a girl!” 

“Lord Bodmin, you are very rude!” Rachel said severely. 
“But that is enough, Ann. If your mother does not wish 
you to go, of course you cannot. Come, it is ten o’clock.” 
She picked up the fallen chair and set it at the table. 
“Let us be sensible and get to work.” 

But Ann thrust the chair away. “I shan’t! J shan’t!” 
she declared passionately. “I shan’t do a word of work!’ 

“Ann! Ann! For shame!” 

“It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” Ann cried, her voice 
quivering. “If he’s to go a 

“There, cry-baby!” the boy retorted. He was not ill- 
natured and he was fond of his sister, but he was uplifted 
by his promotion; while the girl discerned, it may be, if 
only dimly, that here was the parting of the ways, that 
here began the elevation of the boy above the girl. At 





ANNA FURENS 131 


any rate the taunt was barely uttered before Ann snatched 
up a book. “Oh, you toad!” she cried, and would have 
flung it in his face. 

Fortunately Rachel seized her hand and wrested the book 
from her. “Enough!” she said angrily—she, too, heaven 
help her, had not much patience to spare this morning. 
“T will not have this! You cannot always do what your 
brother does, Ann. He is a boy and you are a girl. Be 
silent! And you,” to the boy, “go at once! When you 
are gone a 

Bodmin with a defiant whoop turned to the door. But 
the prospect of defeat was too much for Ann. She also 
made a dart towards the door, and if Rachel had not shut 
it and set her back to it, both would have escaped. “Lady 
Ann,” she said, beside herself. “You must not be dis- 
obedient. You shall not go,” as the girl tugged furiously 
at the handle. “If you behave like this I must go to your 
mother! And you are only keeping your brother if 

“T want to keep him!” Ann panted vengefully. “I want 
to keep him! Oh, you beast!” And she tried to strike 
him across Rachel. 

“Lady Ann!” 

“You beast! You beast!” 

“You naughty wicked girl!” Rachel cried, appalled by 
the passion that turned the child, with her black brows 
and inky mane, into a fury. “Tor shame, you wicked 
child! Do you hear me? Leave the door this instant and 
go to your place!” 

Ann went before the words were out of Rachel’s mouth, 
but it was only to seize a book from the table and to hurl 
it recklessly at her brother’s face. A second followed, and 
she had the inkstand in her hand and was in the act of 
flinging it when Rachel, beside herself at the scene, seized 
her wrist and wrested the missile from her. Even that 
was at the cost of half the ink which flew out not only 
over the table but over her frock. 

“There!” said the boy dispassionately. “Now you have 








132 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


done it, you silly! That’s what comes of your rages!” 


The taunt was too much. The child turned on Rachel 
who still held her by the wrist, and with her free hand 
and all her strength she struck her in the face. 

Rachel thought afterwards of several things which she 
might have done and ought to have done. To go straight 
to the Countess with the mark on her cheek was one of 
them. But what she did, overwrought as she was, was 
none of these things. She turned away, covered her face 
with her hands and burst into a passion of tears. 

The result was a tense silence, broken only by the boy’s 
horrified, “Well, Ann!” For a moment Rachel sobbed, 
unable to control herself. “I must go!” she whispered. 
“T must go. This ends it!” 

“No, I am hanged if it does!” a harsh voice replied. 
She had not heard the door open, nor was aware that 
it had opened. Then “You little whelp!” the same voice 
continued. “No, you don’t go! You ought to be 
whipped—whipped till you come to your senses! Two 
dozen would do you good, you spiteful little baggage! 
Strike an officer on duty, would you. Down on your 
marrow-bones this minute, miss, and beg Miss South’s 
pardon! Down on your knees, or I will twist your ear 
off, you little vixen !” 

A cry of pain. Then, “I won’t! I won't!” Ann 
shrieked. 

“You will or ; 

But this was too much for Rachel. “Don’t! Don’t 
hurt her. Please! Please!” she wailed. But she had 
not the courage to turn and disclose the smarting patch 
on her cheek. She was utterly humiliated by what had 
passed. It proved her to be so unfit, so hopelessly unfit 
for her position. It meant failure, and failure the most 
mortifying. She could never control, never hope to con- 
trol the child after this. 

“Hurt her?” the Captain replied grimly, “but I am 
going to hurt her if she does not at once 3 


? 








ANNA FURENS 133 


“No, no!” Rachel pleaded, suppressing her tears. “It 
will be no use. I pray you won’t,” she begged. “Please 
—please don’t hurt her. It was my fault. I am not fit 
to—I must go.” 

He seemed to hesitate, but there was no diminution of 
anger in his tone when he spoke. “Well, you little say- 
age,” he said, “go then! But first you listen to me, miss! 
You are in Coventry now! JI’ll have no tigress for niece 
of mine, and I don’t speak to you until I have heard that 
you’ve gone down on your knees and begged Miss South’s 
pardon. I wouldn’t touch such a little savage with the 
toe of my boot! And you, Master George, you are the 
cause of this rumpus, I’ll bet. I came up to fetch you. 
But you don’t shoot to-day, my lad. I shall see your 
father about that. Nor until this little she-cat comes to 
her senses, mind you. You’re both in fault, I know! 
Now go!” harshly. “Go out, both of you. My hands 
tingle to box your heads off! Go! Out! Both of you!” 

Rachel heard dragging steps across the floor, a tearful 
sniff which, she had no doubt, proceeded from the boy; 
she heard the door close. She dared not turn to make 
sure that Captain Dunstan had gone with them, but she 
hoped desperately that he had. She shrank from meeting 
his eyes. 

But he had not gone. A moment and he broke the 
silence in a tone almost as harsh as that in which he had 
scolded the offenders. “Well, you can’t say, ma’am, that 
I didn’t warn you,” he said. “I told you what a stubborn 
little toad she was, and by Jove she is! I told you that 
you’d never manage her. She wants a boatswain’s mate 
with a rope’s end behind her. And you, God bless me, 
you’re only a thread-paper !” 

“No,” Rachel said, trying to steady her voice. “I—I 
ought not to have come. But I didn’t know. And now,” 
she continued with a sob she could not stifle, “I must go. 
I am no use after this.” 

‘“Umph! Well, it never does to be beaten. It’s bad, 


134 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


d—d bad for her. Worse for her than for you. Must 
think of that after all. What started the rumpus?” 

“Her brother teased her and she took up the inkstand,” 
Rachel explained, furtively drying her eyes, “to throw 
at him. And I caught her hand and took it from her 
and she 

“Yes,” with a chuckle, “I saw the rest—and heard it. 
And instead of boxing her ears till she could not see— 
you give up, ma’am, and cry!” 

“T couldn’t! Indeed I couldn’t!” Rachel said weakly. 

“Well, I don’t know that you could,” he answered 
grudgingly. “For I’m hanged if I don’t think Ann is the 
bigger of the two. And a pretty mess she has made,” 
with disgust. “Ink all over the place, confound her!” 
She fancied that he was busying himself mopping it up, 
and she turned. 

“T will get a cloth,” she said meekly. She took one 
from a cupboard. 

“That’s better,” he said, and thought to himself, though 
he seemed hardly to glance at her, that he had never seen 
such a pathetic little face. “Here! ‘That book is spoiled, 
anyway. I’d hang it round her neck and make her wear 
it for a week and perhaps my young lady would learn to 
keep her hands off ink-pots—and her governess. Do you 
do that iH 

Rachel shook her head. “It’s too late now,” she said. 

“You do as [ say. Do you hear?” 

““You—you’ve been very kind,” she answered despond- 
ently, “but I must see Lady Ellingham and tell her.” 

“T’ll tell her. You can leave that to me. And do you 
do as I say when Ann comes to you. ‘Trounce the little 
vixen well. Show her that you are her master and will 
stand no nonsense.” 

“But I’m not her master. And I am sure that she will 
not come.” 

“She will or I don’t know her. I’ll see to that. She’s 
not all bad though she has a devil of a temper. She’s 








ANNA FURENS 135 


spoiled and her worst side is outside. But she’s a streak 
of good in her and her mother thinks her more manageable 
since you’ve been here. I suppose you know that?” He 
looked sharply at Rachel. 

“No,” Rachel said, much surprised. “I did not.” 

“Well, do you just rig the gratings,” which was Dutch 
to his listener, “and stand by, and I’ll see that she comes 
aboard. I must go now, they are waiting for me. I'll 
deal with Ann, and if she does not bend her stiff little 
neck to-day I’ll see that she does to-morrow! And for 
God’s sake, young lady,” he added with rough impatience, 
“don’t go peaking and puling like a baby.” 

He stalked out, but was hardly gone before Rachel had 
an idea and flew after him. She overtook him at the 
baize door. “Oh,” she stammered, “if you please, will 
you let Lord Bodmin shoot? He was not much in fault 
and 4 

“Let him shoot?” the Captain retorted. “No, ma’am, 
I’m hanged if I do! Don’t you know that that will hit 
the girl harder than anything? No, by gad, discipline! 
Discipline first; Master George must smart like the rest 
of us! [ll bet that you are smarting for your part in 
it!” And for the first time he met her eyes—a gleam of 
humour in his own. 

Rachel winced and coloured, but she had not to suffer 
long. The Captain turned and hurried down the great 
staircase. She went back to the schoolroom, sat down 
and sighed. 

Still the catastrophe had switched her thoughts for the 
moment off her deeper trouble, and for a while it was 
rather on what Captain Dunstan had done and said that 
her mind turned. He had displayed an amount of com- 
mon sense that surprised her, but would have surprised 
her less, had she recognised the responsibilities that in 
those days of war fell upon young shoulders. His advice 
had not been rendered more palatable by the rough words 
with which he had seasoned it; and Rachel was far from 





136 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


understanding him. She had no conception of the hard- 
ships of the cockpit and the midshipman’s berth into which 
he had been flung, a mere child; or of the years of lonely 
command and responsibility for the lives of hundreds 
which had tempered the man to what he was. She did 
not understand him because she did not know his past, 
his early struggles, his later success, the trials that had 
proved him. But she did feel that, lacking much, he had 
meant to be kind. 

At the same time she was sure that Ann would not sur- 
render and that the end would be the same. She could, 
indeed, hope for no other. She would take her wounded 
spirit and her wretched story of vanity and weakness away 
with her and would hide her head in her home. There 
she might forget him—it was all that was left for her 
to do. 

She thought herself the most unhappy creature on earth, 
and told herself too that she could have borne it better 
if she had not stooped to wound him; if she had not 
wreaked her wretched pride at his expense, who, after all, 
had done so much for her, had been so helpful, so good 
to her. It was that—that, which now most of all cut her 
to the heart and, rankling, tortured her. For possibly if 
she had been more patient, more trusting—but it was too 
late, too late to think of that now! 

Once, looking languidly from the window, she saw a 
sight that drew from her a pang of sympathy, and with 
it a feeble smile. For she discovered that she had a 
fellow-sufferer. The Captain had been as good as his 
word. Bodmin, the image of disconsolate idleness, 
lounged and loitered before the house, sullenly beating 
the trunk of a tree with a switch, and at odds with himself 
and all the world. It needed no stretch of fancy to under- 
stand that he too considered himself the most unhappy 
of beings. 


CHAPTER XV 
INTERCESSION 


Sieep is Nature’s reaction after grief, and Rachel, to her 
surprise, slept long and soundly that night and awoke 
next day not only refreshed, but with the tiniest germ 
of hope re-sown in her breast. She did not know what 
she expected and assured herself that she expected nothing. 
But youth is powerful, and change possible, and there 
was a stir and bustle in the house—for more guests had 
arrived—that passed even through the swing door and 
reached the schoolroom. 

But one thing fell out as she had foreseen. Ten o’clock 
came but no Ann; and now she had to make up her mind 
what she should do. She watched the minute hand move 
slowly towards the quarter past, and she felt—though the 
decision was momentous, and tried her sorely now that 
she had to act—that she could no longer defer the task 
of seeing Lady Ellingham. She could not bear to sit 
idle, useless, brooding with folded hands in the schoolroom 
while Lady Ann ran wild. Accordingly she laid her 
hand on the bell-rope to summon the schoolroom maid, 
then paused, bethinking herself that she might first smooth 
her hair. She went for the purpose into the bedroom. 

Thence, glancing idly from the window, she saw two 
figures standing in the half circle before the house; and 
it needed but a single look at the boy’s drooping head and 
the toe that restlessly scraped the gravel to inform her 
what was the point at issue. Her tender heart owned 
the appeal, and there might be no delay if the boy was 
not to be disappointed again. To see was to act, and 
bare-headed, without staying to snatch up a cloak, or to 

137 


138 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


weigh the punctilios, she ran from the room, raced down 
the staircase and out by the side door. She turned the 
corner and saw that she was in time. The Captain and 
the boy were still together, and intent only on her purpose 
she gave no thought to the knot of men who a few paces 
away were grouped about a tall girl—a new arrival, who 
stood on the steps before the grand entrance. 

Rachel made straight for Captain Dunstan and touched 
him timidly on the arm. “If you please,” she said, 
breathless with the haste that she had made, “if you 
please, may he shoot to-day? Indeed, indeed, he was not 
much in fault. If you please, let him shoot.” 

Whether the Captain was more surprised or displeased 
was doubtful, but certainly his face gave her no encourage- 
ment, and his answer was equally peremptory. “No!” 
he said. “Certainly not! He will not shoot to-day! Do 
you hear, ma’am? And you have nothing on your head 
and it is cold. You should be in the house.” 

But Rachel had caught the grateful look that the boy 
had shot at her, and she persisted. “Oh, but indeed, in- 
deed, it is not just, Captain Dunstan,” she urged. “He 
was not greatly to blame and it—it is not fair that he 
should be punished so severely.” 

“But, I told you, no, ma’am!” the Captain retorted, 
raising his voice as if he had been on his own quarter- 
deck and there was a mutiny to be quelled. “And no, it 
is! The cub has misbehaved and he may think himself 
lucky that he is not on the old Medora, or he’d suffer 
after another fashion. God bless me, ma’am, I thought 
you had some sense. It is your business to have it.” 

“Dear me,’ a gay voice interposed. “What is this, 
Captain Dunstan? What has set you up?” And the girl, 
whom Rachel had not noticed, joined the little group, 
followed by her attendant men. “Is it—is it this young 
lady, who has provoked the tempest ?” 

“Yes,” said the Captain curtly. “She ought to know 
better.” 


INTERCESSION 139 


“Never mind, Miss South,” Lord Robert struck in. “Do 
you hang out signals of distress, and I’ll be your consort 
and bear up to the rescue!” 

“I fancy the signals are flying already,” Colonel Ould 
said, sotto voce, for indeed poor Rachel finding herself 
on a sudden the centre of an amused group, had coloured 
up to her hair. 

“Then you may take it I am alongside,” Bobbie replied 
in the same tone. “What can I.do for you, Miss South?” 

“IT want Captain Dunstan to be good enough,” Rachel 
said shyly, “to allow Lord Bodmin to shoot to-day.” She 
was aware that the wind was ruffling the curls that she 
had not had time to arrange, and most devoutly she 
wished herself in the house. 

“That all?” said Bobbie. ‘Then it is as good as done. 
We'll all stand by you, though, mind you, L am your con- 
sort, Miss South, and he can’t say us all nay. Come, 
Miss Froyle,” turning to the girl who had first interposed 
—she was handsome, tall and full-figured—“he can’t re- 
fuse you, [am sure. Add your voice,” he insisted, a spice 
of mischief in his tone, “and the thing is done.” 

“Nonsense, Lord Robert,” the girl replied rather sharply. 
Then aside, “Who is this?” 

“The governess,” some one prompted. 

“<“Who whipped two female ’prentices to death, And 
hid them in the coal-hole,”” quoted the Colonel, much 
to Rachel’s confusion. 

“No, no,” said Bobbie, laughing in spite of himself. 
“You shall not traduce my consort. Hanged if you shall. 
Though I did notice that Ann was looking a little queer 
at breakfast.” 

“But why,’ Miss Froyle asked languidly, “should not 
Lord Bodmin shoot, Captain Dunstan ?” 

“He knows very well,” the Captain growled. He looked 
by no means pleased with the turn things had taken. 
“There, get your guns,” he continued impatiently. “And 
let us be off! ‘To quarters! To quarters!” 


140 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“You d—d mutineers!” added the irrepressible Bobbie. 
“That puts us men out of action. But there still remains 
Miss Froyle. She is not on the ship’s books though some 
do say that the beautiful new figure-head of the Medora 
was taken directly from 4 

“Lord Robert, you speak too much,” the lady said, 
colouring slightly. “Still I hope that you will let Lord 
Bodmin shoot, Captain Dunstan! See how unhappy the 
poor boy looks. Please do. I ask it as a favour.” 

“Brava!” Bobbie cried. “Now he can’t refuse.” 

“Can’t he?” the Captain grunted. “Sorry, Miss Froyle, 
but discipline, discipline! The boy has misbehaved and he 
must pay for it.” 

“Lo,” Ould quoted solemnly, “the poor savage who no 
charm can find, either in tresses bound or unconfined !” 
Which drew all eyes to Rachel’s head and caused a general 
Jaugh. 

At this moment a new arrival added himself to the 
group. It was Filmer, the parson. He was followed 
by Lord Ellingham. “Well done, Colonel!” the former 
said. “You surpass yourself. But what is the cause of 
this rush of wit to the head?” 

“Yes, what is up?” Lord Ellingham chimed in gaily. 
“Good morning, Miss South. Are you part of the joke?” 

“Miss South is the whole of it,” Ould rejoined rather un- 
kindly—he was enjoying the girl’s embarrassment. “She 
has been praying old George to let young George shoot to- 
day. And Miss Froyle supports the petition. But the 
martinet is proof against all blandishments great and 
small. That is where we are, Fred.” 

“Oh but,” my lord said, “discipline may be carried too 
far. And after all there is an appeal. Now, Miss South,” 
he continued, with the winning smile which was credited 
with so many conquests, for he was perfectly aware that 
he was playing to an appreciative gallery, “you should 
have come to me, you know. I am known to be weak. 





INTERCESSION 141 


But it is not too late if you really are so anxious that the 
naughty boy shall be forgiven.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Fred,” his brother snapped. 

“No, no, George. You’ve played your part. J am the 
Court of Appeal and you must not threaten me. If you 
do want the boy pardoned, Miss South—but I must hear 
your voice you know.” 

Rachel knew that he was playing with her and that the 
others were watching the issue with amusement. She 
hesitated. She did want the boy to be pardoned, but she 
felt that to appeal tc my lord was to be false to the 
Captain, who had been kind to her after his fashion. She 
had gone so far, however, that she could not now retreat, 
and in a very small voice, “If you please?” she murmured. 

My lord’s eyes twinkled. “As a favour to you, Miss 
South, of course ?” 

Her cheeks tingled but what could she do but assent. 
“If you please,” she murmured. 

“Granted!” my lord cried. “Who could resist, eh? 
But, begad, Miss South, you will have to be grateful, for 
you've got me into trouble. There! I thought so! 
There goes George in a huff. I bet his shooting is spoiled 
for the day !” 

As the group broke up, Ould filed off with Miss Froyle. 
He was a clever man as well as a man of fashion; a wit 
at White’s and a cynical observer of the weak points of 
others, with a malicious taste for stirring up mischief 
where the opportunity offered. He knew that the upshot 
of the business had not been to his companion’s liking, 
for Charlotte Froyle was credited with something more 
than a fancy for Captain Dunstan. The Froyles were 
country neighbours. “George isn’t best pleased!” he re- 
marked with a chuckle. “What do you think about it?” 

“T don’t think anything,” she replied. “Except that 
Ellingham is up to his usual tricks. How Kitty can i 

“Put up with it? Well,” he rejoined, smiling, “there’s 





142 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


a limit to everything. And perhaps Fred will find that 
out by and by—like many a one before him.” 

“T should think so. I know if I were in her place——” 
she broke off. “If you are going to shoot to-day,” she 
said impatiently, “we ought to be off.” 

He looked back. “Still at it, Fred!” he called out, 
“Miss Froyle wants to know if you are going to shoot to- 
day. Or are you—otherwise engaged ?” 

“Coming! Coming!’ my lord answered. He said a 
last laughing word to Rachel whom he had detained and 
he came away. The party streamed off to where the keep- 
ers and dogs stood awaiting them, while Rachel went 
back to the schoolroom regretting in her heart that she 
had left it. 

Yet she could hardly say why, for she had gained her 
point. But she had gained it in such a way that the 
victory gave her no pleasure. The Captain had been ob- 
durate, but then she suspected that he had been right. 
And she felt that she had failed him and made but a sorry 
return for his kindness. Was she to be unfortunate, to be 
unhappy in all things? 

And one thing was certain—she must now see Lady 
Ellingham. She went to her bedroom and smoothed her 
disordered hair which called more imperatively than be- 
fore for the brush. Then, anxious to put an end to all her 
doubts, she passed through the swing-door and down the 
deserted staircase. When she climbed it again the fiat 
would have gone forth. 

But on the first landing she came plumb upon Lady Ann 
lurking there and moving, it seemed, neither up nor down. 
They had not met since the fracas, and Rachel had already 
determined on her course. “Good morning, Lady Ann,” 
she said formally, and she passed by her. 

But the child thrust out a grudging hand, and seized 
her skirt. “What are you going to do?” she muttered 
sullenly, her eyes on the floor. 


INTERCESSION 143 


“T am going to your mother.” 

“Has George—” the child spoke morosely, her face half 
hidden by her drooping black mane—“gone to shoot?” 

eY ca”? 

“And you—begged him off?” 

“T did.” Rachel spoke coldly. 

“Then,” Ann said, her eyes still on the floor, “t want 
to—to beg your pardon.” 

Rachel hesitated. “I am not sure that it is not too 
late,” she said in measured accents. “I am not sure that 
I wish to listen to you. But,” she decided after an 
austere pause, “you may come to the schoolroom if you are 
in earnest.” 

Rachel was not sure that the child—so sullen and un- 
gracious was her manner—really meant what she said. 
However she turned and retraced her steps, and Ann after, 
it seemed, a moment’s hesitation, followed with lagging 
feet. But the moment that the door closed on them the 
child dropped on her knees in the middle of the floor. “I 
beg your pardon—humbly,” she whispered with a dry sob, 
but without a tear. 

“You wish to be forgiven ?” 

“Yes.” The word seemed to be torn from Ann, and: 
Rachel comprehended the effort the child was making to 
overcome her stubborn pride. And gladly would she have 
kissed her and forgiven her without more. But she re- 
membered the Captain’s “Discipline! Discipline!” and 
she pressed the matter home. 

“That is your side,” she said drily. “What I want you 
to understand, for you are quite old enough, is how 
gravely you have insulted me. If you had struck a girl 
of your own age it would have been wrong. But she 
would have felt only the smart, and might have retaliated. 
But when you struck me, at my age, and when your mother 
had entrusted control to me, it was not the blow that hurt 
me, it was the insult. Do you understand me? Do you 


14 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


understand that in a moment it unfitted me to be your 
governess and that unless you are now truly and honestly 
SOITY ag 

“T am,” Ann whispered, “truly and humbly sorry.” 

“And will you try to control your temper in future?” 

“T will—try.” 

“And still I do not know what to do to bring home to 
you what you did.” 

“You may box my ears,” said Ann thrusting out her 
head for the purpose. 

“No!” Rachel said, melting—this singular girl had not 
shed a tear! “I won’t do that. I will forgive you, for I 
believe that you have generous feelings and I know that 
it has cost you much, very much to say this. Now sit up 
and we will try to be better friends.” 

“And you will tell Uncle George?” Ann said shyly. 

“Yes, I will tell him that you are forgiven. And now, 
we will get to work and we shall not find work less pleasant 
because we know that your brother is enjoying himself.” 

Ann stooped suddenly and kissed Rachel’s hand. For 
her it was a monstrous demonstration and it brought a 
little comfort to the girl’s heart. Here it seemed was 
something in which she had not wholly failed. 

But that afternoon she felt the schoolroom with its sad 
memories intolerable, and she stole out by the side door 
and walked far into the forest, telling herself that it would 
be well to tire herself. If she showed her wisdom in this, 
however, she did not show it in the choice of the path she 
followed. Stag’s Hole with its tragical associations was 
closed to her—even by daylight she shrank from it. But 
there was another walk which she had more than once 
taken with the tutor and the children, its object an old 
stone boundary post, called the March Stone. And for 
this she made, deriving a sombre pleasure from the loneli- 
ness and the stark wintry woods, but presently and in- 
evitably succumbing to the memories, both bitter and 
sweet, that the path revived. Here she had paused and 





INTERCESSION 145 


talked with him, there he had plucked for her a flower 
or a new fern, across this rivulet he had placed stepping- 
stones for her, on that rotten trunk, now bare and ugly but 
then wreathed in green undergrowth, he had pretended to 
argue with her, to confute, to tease and again to comfort, 
her! 

She knew that it was unwise to revive these memories, 
that they weakened her and rendered her more unhappy. 
But she could not refrain. She plucked a leaf and a be- 
lated flower and pressed them in her pocket-book. She 
would keep them always—always! Surely, though she 
must show him a proud face, though she must sacrifice to 
duty and pride in public she might at least weep and suffer 
in the privacy of her own heart. It was all that was left 
to her! 

She came at last to the March Stone, and stood gazing 
at it with brooding eyes, despondency in every line of her 
bent head and drooping figure. 


CHAPTER XVI 
A GOLDEN HAZE 


Two persons had witnessed Rachel’s intervention in young 
Bodmin’s behalf, and its issue; they had witnessed it from 
windows as far apart as their stations in life, but with 
feelings to some extent akin. Of these two one was Lady 
Ellingham—but of her later. The other was Girardot. 

The tutor was very sore. The rebuff that he had suffered 
in the drawing-room, and the banter in which the Countess 
had indulged at his expense had wounded his vanity to 
the quick—and he was a man very vain of his fascination 
and his conquests. Of his hold over Lady Ellingham’s 
feelings he had never been confident. She had been and 
she still was, though he was no believer in woman’s virtue, 
something of an enigma to him. But the part that 
Rachel had played, Rachel, the little girl over whom at 
least he had deemed his influence secure, this had not only 
surprised but enraged him. It had had, too, other and 
natural consequences. It had heightened his fancy for the 
girl and at the same time had infused into his feeling that 
tinge of cruelty, which is often a part of a certain kind of 
love. Still the desire to reduce her was checked for a 
while by discretion and was also held in suspense, by the 
reflection that hasty action might affect his chances in a 
higher quarter. He was still inclined to wait on events 
in the hope that he might secure his conquest without that 
conquest proving too costly. 

But what he now saw from the window both quickened 
his desire and overcame his prudence. He saw her, the 

146 


A GOLDEN HAZE 147 


little insignificant governess, surrounded by a group of men 
belonging to the class that, if it addressed him at all, ad- 
dressed him with patronage, and he saw her, as he sup- 
posed, the centre of their attentions. And while he 
wondered with angry surprise what this might mean and 
how she came to be there, the sight added immensely to 
her value. He suspected, remembering the scene in the 
drawing-room, that the minx was now flying at higher 
game, and he feared that the piquancy and the charm that 
had caught his own fancy might prove equally attractive 
to others. Ay, she was flying at higher game, he was sure ; 
and it was with a view to that that she had eluded and 
baffled him and joined with my lady in making sport of 
him! In a twinkling idle liking flamed into passion, and 
the man burned with the desire to subdue the woman— 
burned with a desire that mingled love with revenge. 

Of success, if he bent himself to conquer regardless of 
consequences, he had no doubt. With his handsome face 
and ingratiating tongue, his cleverness and experience, he 
was not wont to be defeated. And he was not going to be 
defeated by this naive little prude upon whom he was sure 
that he had at one time made his impression! He had 
seen her colour rise too often at his entrance, her eyes 
grow tender at his approach, to doubt that. And though 
she might now have conceived, little duplicity that she was, 
higher ambitions, he knew the force of a first impression, 
he had proved the power of the first man; and he had little 
doubt that, at some risk to his position in the house, he 
could renew the spell. For if men were fire, women were 
tow, and she should learn that lesson. 

So far he had paid his court slowly, out of prudence. 
But now he threw prudence to the winds, and even went 
so far as to persuade himself that he was more likely to 
succeed elsewhere if he summoned jealousy to his aid. It 
might be that that which had moved my lady to make that 
surprising and embarrassing attack upon him in the 
drawing-room had been jealousy. He was not only vain 


148 QUEEN'S FOLLY 


enough to think this possible but sanguine enough to hope 
that by pursuing the humbler game he might, in the long 
run, pull down both. 

But for the moment as he glowered from the window it 
was the girl whom he burned to conquer. 

He saw that he must attack her where they would not be 
open to interruption, and his pupil’s absence with the 
shooters left him free. He placed himself on the watch, 
and soon after two he saw Rachel, in her warm caped 
cloak, leave the house and walk briskly away, taking a path 
which entered the forest at the rear of the house. He 
guessed the place for which she was making, and familiar 
with the forest he made for the spot by another path. As 
he brushed through the dead bracken, and now leapt a 
narrow rivulet, now plunged through a wet bottom, he 
had his moments of doubt ; not doubt of the maid but doubt 
of his own wisdom. All about him whispered cold cau- 
tion; the cheerless breeze, the hollies that massed darkly 
against the open leafless trees, the dead aspect of the 
frozen woods. 

But desire knows few obstacles, and he was not one to 
be easily turned aside. The ardour within him repelled 
the outer cold, and when he emerged from the wood and 
saw the March Stone and read the drooping lines of the 
figure standing despondently before it, he guessed with an 
upleap of triumph the trend of the girl’s thoughts, and 
that he was the subject of them. The possessive instinct 
flamed up in him, and confident of victory, he considered 
only how he might best open the attack. 

For he foresaw that at the outset he would have to over- 
come difficulties—the prejudice which his prudent holding- 
off and Lady Ellingham’s candour had raised in the girl’s 
mind, and possibly the ambitious hopes that she had been 
led to place elsewhere. He must be both bold and adroit. 
But given these qualities he was confident that if he did 
not succeed, all his knowledge of women was at fault. 

The girl stood so deep in thought—and it was easy to 


A GOLDEN HAZE 149 


see, in sad thought—that he was able to approach her un- 
noticed. 

When at last the snap of a stick caught her ear and she 
turned, her surprise was complete. The tell-tale blood 
flooded her face, and at that sight, Girardot’s heart leapt 
in triumph. She was his, he was certain of it. Yes, he 
had set his mark upon her! But it was not his cue to show 
at the moment what he felt, and it was with a pensive air 
and leaning on his cane that he stood looking, not at her, 
but at the crumbling pillar. 

“Strange!” he said, in a low voice. “It is not changed 
since we saw it last. It is the same, this stone, whether 
the sun shines, or the clouds gather. Whether a lord 
gazes on itoraclown. Oryouorl. It does not change.” 
He sighed. 

His appearance at that moment—that moment when he 
filled all her thoughts was almost too much for Rachel’s 
self-control. She had been dreaming of him, and taking 
farewell of him, her heart filled to the brim with his 
image. And to find him beside her! ‘To be swept in a 
second by the flood of hopes, possibilities, alarms, that his 
presence suggested and must suggest! It was only by a 
most painful effort that the girl retained her composure, 
and found words. “It does not feel,’ she murmured, 
hardly knowing what she said. 

“No,” he replied in the same tone, but with point. “It 
does not feel. Nor grieve nor suffer. Our joys or our 
sorrows, our hopes or their failure, our happiness or misery 
are one to it. It does not feel.” 

She felt! Alas, she felt only too strongly. His tone, 
sad and faintly reproachful, stirred her to the depths. 
She could not reason or remember, His silence and his 
withdrawal were forgotten, and it was much if, taken in 
this unguarded moment of emotion, and surprised when 
all her defences were down, she could hide her trouble or 
keep back her tears. 

Speech was beyond her, and it was he who continued. 


150 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Tt is cold, heartless, insensible to kindness,’ he went on, 
his tone steeped in gloom. “A stone. But at least it does 
not distrust, it is proof against slander, it does not veer 
with the weather, it is the same in favour and out of 
favour, rain or shine. What it was yesterday when the 
sun warmed it, it is to-day when the clouds gather.” 

“But it is only a stone,” she said, striving for composure ; 
but she strove in vain, for a traitorous sob broke the words. 

“Only a stone!” he repeated, his voice rising. “You 
say that—you! Ah, to me it is more, it is much more! 
It tells me of hopes, of dear hopes born beside it, of plans 
formed under its shadow, of visions bound up with it, 
visions of contentment, of a home, a home far from this 
cold magnificence, and to be shared with one But for 
you,” breaking off abruptly, he turned to her, “it has no 
such voice as this? It tells no such tale. It does not 
speak ?” 

Alas, it was not only with his words, moving as they 
were, that poor Rachel had to contend. The spell of his 
presence, his nearness, his veiled reproach, all conspired 
to shake and overpower her resistance. The Countess’s 
warning and her own disappointment, her long suspense, 
lost their force, were for nothing, were forgotten. She 
needed only a sign, some certain sign—nay, only a touch, 
to be taken. 

“Then the past is past?” he continued slowly. “Well, 
let it be so. We have walked here, we have stood here, we 
have—or I have—dreamed here. But to you it is all as 
if we had not! As if those things had never been! It is 
done with, Rachel ?” 

She was quivering from head to foot and in an agony 
lest her tears should overflow and he should measure the 
extent of her trouble. Anything was better than this 
terrible, this betraying silence, and she forced herself to 
speak. “I do not understand,” she whispered. 

“You do not?” His voice rose at last. “Oh, yes, but 





A GOLDEN HAZE I5I 


you do! Youdo! Or, forgive me, you did! But a word 
from another has wiped all from your heart.” 

“No!” she cried, tears in her yoice. “No! No!” 

He passed by the remonstrance as if she had not spoken. 
“At any rate you knew once what I meant!” he said. 
“Deny if you can that you knew that I loved you! Loved 
you with the love that is as sacred to us, Rachel, and more 
precious since we possess so little, as it is to those be- 
neath whose shadow, cold as this stone, we are fated to 
live! You knew that I loved you! I dare you to deny it. 
There is an affinity between us, a tie that without words 
would have told you as much—if my lips had never spoken. 
But you have hardened your heart against me. You have 
preferred to honest affection the smiles of those who smile 
only to deceive you.” 

“Oh, no, no!” Rachel repeated, the tears running openly 
down her face. “But I thought that you—I thought that 
you ” And, quite simply she held out her hands to 
him. 

“What did you think ?” 

“1 thought that you did not mean it, > she sobbed, and 
she swayed towards him. 

“Then you do!” he cried, and he let his exaltation burst 
forth in his tone, “you do love me!” And, triumphing, 
he took her, warm and unresisting, in his arms. “You do! 
Oh, Rachel, is it true—is it true, and am I happy?” To 
himself, “Oh, lucky stone!” he thought—but Rachel could 
not see his face or his smile. And he was careful, he was 
heedful not to frighten her. With another he would have 
pushed his opportunity, he would have covered her face 
with kisses. But he was no novice, there would be time 
for that by and by; and in this moment of her first sur- 
render he held himself in hand. Instead, as she hid her 
happy face on his breast, he poured soft words of endear- 
ment into her ears, he pressed her gently to him, soothed 
her with fond touches. 





152 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


And Rachel felt and prized his self-restraint, and in this 
first moment of shy, blissful surrender found no drawback 
to her happiness. When at her trembling appeal he at 
length released her, she saw all things, the leafless forest, 
the grey sky, the dead herbage, through a quivering 
radiant mist, of which he was the centre and creator. He 
was henceforth to be hers, her man, her pride, her support, 
the pillar about which her love would wind itself as the 
summer growth would presently weave itself about the 
erey pillar beside them. She was wholly happy, if shyly 
happy. Nor was it until—after more than one tender 
precious interlude, more than one exchange of ardent as- 
surances—they had turned their backs on the spot now so 
sacred to her, and, with his arm still about her, had 
left it some way behind them, that she felt the chill air of 
reality sweep aside a wisp of the roseate haze. 

“Will you tell Lady Ellingham?” she murmured in a 
voice as tender as the look she raised to him. “Or— 
must [?” 

She felt the arm that encircled her stiffen, and the move- 
ment gave her a hint of discomfort. “Ah!” he said — 
slowly. “That is to be considered. We must go about 
that warily, my darling.” 

“But you do not mean—that we are not to fs 

“To tell her?” he replied confidently. “Of course we 
must. Of course we must tell her, my darling. But not 
yet. These things in our class,” with a flash of well simu- 
lated resentment, “are not favoured. I must be prepared 
with a place before I tell her, for this you see may end my 
engagement. It probably will, indeed.” 

Contrition seized her. “Oh, my dear,” she said, “am 
I worth it? Are you sure that you oy 

“Love you enough?” he answered, drawing her tenderly 
to him. “Silly one! I hope that you are worth a great 
deal more than that—or I don’t know you! But for a little 
space, my dear, we must be silent. And J am glad of it, 
yes, I am glad of it,” he repeated, so fervently that she 








A GOLDEN HAZE 133 


could not but agree. “For love, such love as ours, is a 
sacred thing, Rachel. I cannot bear that the common 
wind should blow on it, the common world discuss it! If 
I could, indeed, if it were possible, I would keep it from 
all! It should be for ever our secret, our treasure, our 
possession. I would guard it from every eye, every vulgar 
ear and tongue!’ 

“But that cannot be,” she objected gently, yet loved him 
the more for his delicacy. 

“No,” with a sigh. “That cannot be—of course. But 
for a little space let us keep it untarnished. In ten days 
or a fortnight, when I have tried the ground ‘i 

“You will tell her?” 

“Of course.” He spoke as if there could be no question 
of that. “We must, to be sure, we must. There is no 
other course open to us.” 

She owned the beauty of his thought; of his conception 
of a love, wholly and sacredly their own, and guarded from 
the knowledge of the cold, indifferent world. But her na- 
ture, simple and open, might not have consented so easily 
but for the limit of time that he named. Ten days? It 
would pass so quickly, so happily, and who, at such a mo- 
ment, could raise scruples or put forward difficulties, as 
if he were one to be distrusted ? 

A ruder blast, however, was presently to penetrate, 
though it was far from dispersing, the glamour in which 
she moved. They were within a short distance of the 
house when from a converging path some hundred yards 
before them, there issued the shooting party, straggling 
by twos and threes towards the Folly. Had one of the 
men looked back as they passed the fork, he must have 
seen the couple, and, quick to perceive this, Girardot drew 
her out of the path. He could not hide his discomposure. 

“This won’t do,” he said hurriedly, “or all is out, dear- 
est. We must not be seen together, and in any case we 
must have parted presently. Do you go on. Go, dear!” 
And gently he stooped and kissed her. Then, as he gently 





154 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


released her, “Do you go on and God bless you, my own!” 

She disliked the concealment, but what could she do with 
his kiss still on her lips. She compled and walked on in 
a tremor of happiness, hardly able, now that she was alone, 
to believe that this thing, this blessed thing had happened 
to her—that he was hers, her own, her very own. But she 
was not long left to her thoughts. She was indeed roughly 
plucked from them, for at the meeting of the ways she 
came plump upon Ann—Ann capering along with her 
hand in her father’s. 

Had Rachel been walking in the real world instead of 
in that rosy dream, she might have heard their voices 
earlier, and have hung back and avoided them. But as 
it was, she was taken by surprise, and the conscious blush 
that crimsoned her face caught my lord’s eye. 

“Gad, the girl’s a beauty,’ he thought, “of a sort.” 
Aloud, “Hallo, Miss South!” he cried. ‘Were you hunting 
for the truant? If she plagues you,” he continued, ruffling 
Ann’s black mane with his hand, “half as much as she 
plagues me, I am sorry for you! How do you manage 
her? Hope you whip her well!” 

“No, she don’t!” said Ann stolidly. 

“Well how the deuce does she manage you, Miss Brim- 
stone ?” 

“T like her,’ Ann said dispassionately. 

“The devil you do! How’s that, Miss South? Why, I 
thought this rogue made war on all governesses, tutors, 
principalities and powers! Can she be good?” 

“She can be,” Rachel said demurely. The by-play had 
given time for her hot cheeks to cool, and she spoke calmly, 
though her eyes were unusually bright. 

“Can she? Then let’s test you, Ann. Run on and tell 
Felix to make me a hot bath. Show us how fast those thin 
legs of yours can run.” 

Ann, glad to be in motion, flew after the rest of the 
party, the rearmost of whom were still in sight. My 


A GOLDEN HAZE 155 


lord turned to his companion. “Gad,” he said, with his 
gay captivating laugh, “we go down before your charms 
like ninepins! I this morning, Ann this afternoon! 
Come now,” with a sly peep under her bonnet, “who is 
to be your next conquest ?” 

He meant nothing, but he could no more refrain from 
making love when he spoke to a pretty woman than he 
could help breathing; though in nine cases out of ten it 
was mere sport. And in this case it was certainly innocent, 
for with all his faults he would have drawn the line at his 
daughter’s governess almost as sharply as Captain George 
himself. But when a piquant little thing with shining 
eyes and lips that trembled into smiles met him at the 
junction of two paths, to waste the opportunity would have 
been as impossible for Frederick Lord Ellingham as to re- 
frain from oysters in September. 

He might have paid a much broader compliment without 
affecting Rachel in her present mood. “I fear that Lady 
Ann is but a temporary capture,” she said sedately. 

“Well, she’s a deuced difficult one! More difficult, I 
warrant than most of us, eh? Confess, now. Isn’t she?” 
Then in a lower tone, “I say, are you coming down this 
evening ?” 

“To the drawing-room, Lord Ellingham ?” 

“To be sure.” 

“No,” Rachel explained. “I come down only when Lady 
Ellingham is alone.” 

“Oh, come now, that is too bad,” he cried good-naturedly. 
“And tell me—between you and me, ain’t you confoundedly 
dull up there, wasting your—you know the rest?” 

“No,” Rachel replied, with such a look of conscious hap- 
piness that my lord having no clue to it felt his interest 
in her increase. “I am happier in the schoolroom than 
in the drawing-room.” 

“The devil you are! Well, begad, that’s one for us!” 

“Oh!” Rachel cried. “I didn’t mean that!” 


156 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“But it is true! Begad, it is! I can see it is. But 
why now?” in his most insinuating tone. “Ain’t we nice 
to you?” 

“Oh, yes,” Rachel protested, colouring. “Of course. 
But the schoolroom is my proper place. And so I am 
happier there.” . 

“In your proper place? I see. You are happier when 
you are there. By Jove,” he said with feeling. “I wish we 
all were. But, lord, what a wise little lady you are! If 
you teach that to Ann she’ll be a wiser man,” with a mo- 
mentary gravity in his tone, “than her father. Suppose I 
come up and take a lesson too, do you think you can teach 
me that? What do you say, Miss South?” 

“That you would not be in your proper place,” Rachel 
replied demurely, but with a smile hovering on her lips. 
“And that would not be good for you or for Ann.” ‘Then, 
“Good day, Lord Ellingham, J turn off here.” And with a 
gay little nod—for her heart was like a singing bird, ris- 
ing higher and higher on the swell of the incredible happi- 
ness that flooded her—she turned aside to the side door, 
and went up to the schoolroom. 

There the fire burned low, glowing like a sulky eye in 
the twilight, and the room was cold. But what matter? 
What matter if all was dull and shabby within, and with- 
out were winter and east winds and nipping airs? For 
she brought her own clime with her, and to that room 
which she had left wretched and despondent she returned in 
all the glow of an amazing, an overpowering happiness. 
In the gloom she saw only halcyon days; days of tender 
reverie and thankful contemplation, days given .up to 
reverencing and cherishing and turning every way the 
glorious heaven-born gift of his love! The gift that had 
transfigured and was transfiguring the world for her, that 
was brightening the long vista of life with fairest flowers 
and filling the sunlit spaces with nature’s melody! What 
outer cold was there, what nipping air, that could reach 
this inner warmth? What loneliness was there that was 


A GOLDEN HAZE 157 


not weleome—ay, thrice welcome if it left her free to bask 
in the sunshine of her dreams? 

Meanwhile my lord strode into the house, half puzzled 
and half amused. “What a provoking, prudent little 
baggage it is!” he thought. “And eyes like stars! I’m 
hanged if I don’t think that she was laughing at me half 
the time! Or preaching! In my proper place, eh? Well, 
she had me there!” The smile vanished and his face was 
moody as he entered the hall. 


CHAPTER XVII 
THE ROASTING OF GEORGE 


THE girl had given hardly a thought to the encounter with 
my lord and less to his gallantry. But more than one of 
the shooters had looked back, and recognising her had 
found something to say about it. Then Ann in her rapid 
flight had been waylaid by her uncle. She had explained 
her errand and he too had looked back and frowned. The 
way in which he had been over-ruled that morning had 
not pleased the Captain, and he was jealous, as he was ever 
jealous on my lady’s account. And possibly there were 
other grounds for his vexation which he did not under- 
stand and certainly did not own. At any rate when my 
lord strode into the hall his brother met him with a 
sombre face. “For God’s sake, Fred,” he blurted out, “let 
that little girl alone. There is trouble enough without 
that!” 

Now these two, between whom there was an affection 
rare in their class, had long ago changed places. Success 
had made the younger independent, for in his day fortunes 
were rapidly made at sea; and hard service and the habit 
of command had won for him the elder’s respect. He had 
become the mentor, and as a rule was heard with patience 
if with small result. But no man more warmly resents 
a false accusation than he who is guilty on other counts; 
and my lord was no exception to the rule. He fired up. 
“Without what?” he replied sharply. “Confound you, 
what do you mean, George? Mayn’t I speak to my own 
governess? Damme, man, what are we coming to?” 

158 


THE ROASTING OF GEORGE 150 


“She’s not your governess,” George replied. “She’s 
Ann’s. And all I say is, just leave her alone. You know 
what I mean very well.” 

“Begad, I'l] tell you what it is!” my lord retorted. “I 
believe you are taken with her yourself, Master George!” 
And the idea in a moment restored his good temper. “I 
suspect I’ve crossed your hawse,” he added, grinning, “as 
you’d say, and so it’s ‘Hands off!’ That’s it, old chap!” 

“Oh, stow that,” the Captain rejoined. “You only say 
it for the sake of saying something.” 

“Tt’s a hit anyway!” my lord replied with glee. “Hang 
me if it isn’t. Now mind you respect her virtue, George! 
Remember she’s under my charge. I’m responsible and 
—ha! ha! Hit between wind and water! Off, are you?” 
He laughed aloud as the Captain, with an angry oath, 
turned away and strode up the stairs. “Poor George,” he 
reflected mischievously. “I beat him there, I guess!’ 

And after dinner when the matter came up again, and 
my lord was attacked about it, he smiled at the others’ 
innuendoes, and craftily waited his time. “So that was 
why you lagged behind?” Bobbie said. “Ann, indeed, 
you old sinner!” 

“A silly rogue that plagues me,” quoted the Colonel. 
“A little French—governess! And having some charac- 
ter to lose she met me in the wood!” 

“And only two nights ago Fred pretended that he had 
never seen her!” 

“True, 7pon honour,” my lord laughed. 

“Poor. girl!” quoted the Colonel gravely—he was an 
amateur actor of some note. “I really am in the utmost 
eoncern for her.” 

“For us, for us, you mean,” returned Bobbie. “In- 
hospitable dog! Fred asks us here and leaves us only 
the chambermaids.” 

“Out of regard for your innocence,’ 
“You are too young, Bobbie.” 

“And after all,” said Sir Austin Froyle, with the air of 


2 


my lord laughed. 


160 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


one deciding a question on the Bench, “a man has a right 
to the game in his own warren.” 

My lord laughed. “Oh, it’s a free warren for me. 
You can all go in and win—if you can. You, George, 
if you like,” pointedly. “She’s a dear little innocent 
for me.” 

“Ay, innocent as Bobbie,” the Colonel contributed. “I 
warrant she knows how to turn the key in a door.” 

“They are all dear little innocents,” lisped Bobbie. 
“Only just a little less innocent when they have walked 
home with Fred.” 

But the Captain, though he suspected that Fred was 
laying a trap for him, could stand it no longer. “There, 
let the child alone!” he said with irritation. “You are 
all talking d—d nonsense! A set of stap-my-vitals Lord 
Foppingtons, every mother’s son of you.” 

“Hallo, George!” Lord Robert stared, genuinely sur- 
prised by the attack. “What the devil’s bitten you?” 

“As for Fred,” the Captain continued. ‘“He’s a pig to 
carry on as he does. He knows the girl is a good girl.” 

“They are all good girls,” smiled the Colonel. “Didn’t 
I say so?” 

“Yes, but you didn’t mean it, Ould. Ill wager that 
Fred never laid a finger on her and never got more than 
a civil word from her !” 

“True as my glove, George,” my lord assented, delighted 
at his success in “drawing the badger.” 

But the Colonel had now caught the idea, and pursued 
it. “Joseph—I mean George—is indeed what a man 
should be,” he said. “A pattern to his brother, Fred. 
He professes the noblest sentiments, ’tis edification to hear 
him. But he makes me suspect if he be indeed the man 
of principle he seems to be. Fred Surface? Nay, my 
dear Lady Sneerwell, but his brother George is the man. 
Now after what we have heard I am open to wager that 
George knows a deal more about the little French goy- 
erness than Fred does—and damn his sentiments!” 


THE ROASTING OF GEORGE 161 


My lord clapped his hands. “Well, George, what do 
you say?” he cried. “Begad,”’ to Ould, “I think you have 
tailed him.” And the Captain certainly looked a little 
out of countenance. “I’m hanged if he hasn’t stolen a 
march upon us, the sly dog!” 

George answered him sulkily. “All I say is, let the 
girl alone,” he said. “Let her be. If you do her no more 
harm than I have she’ll be lucky. But,’ he declared 
viciously, “you are just a crew of waisters, good for nothing 
but tumbling over one another in pursuit of mischief! 
As if there weren’t enough women where you come from, 
and good enough for you!” 

Colonel Ould laughed softly. “Odd!” he said. “It’s 
confounded odd what a change has come over George’s 
service since Lady Hamilton joined it. They used to be 
rough sea-dogs, smelling of the tar-bucket and, saving 
your presence, George, with uncouth manners and coats 
to match—you might know one at sight as far as from 
Schomberg House to the Carlton Corner—and as much 
given to flirtation as a bear in a pit! But since Lord 
Nelson set the fashion of gallantry i 

“Oh!” the Captain cried impatiently, “for God’s sake, 
leave Lord Nelson out!” 

“There!” The Colonel winked. “He proves my point. 
You mustn’t touch Lord Nelson. Why?” 

“T could soon tell you why!” growled the badger. 

“No need! No need!” airily. The Colonel was not 
over-fond of Fred’s brother and had no mind to lose the 
opportunity of roasting him. “It’s writ large all over 
the service. He’s done the trick for them! He’s made 
them all men of fashion, lifted ’em to the plane of ele- 
gance, made ’em all lady-killers! They all aspire to a 
Lady Hamilton now, buy their coats at Stultz’s, go soaked 
in mille-fleurs, handle a snuff-box instead of a tar-bucket, 
and chase the ladies! So here’s to Lord Nelson!” 

“Tt?s ‘here to Lord Nelson’ for a very different reason,” 
snapped the Captain, amid the general laughter. 





162 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“He’s an admiral like another,” said old Froyle. 

But this was too much for George. “Oh, is he, begad ?” 
he retorted. “Like another! I know that is what you 
fools of landsmen think, fribbling over your dish of cat- 
lap! But I wager you he’s not like another! He’s a 

“He’s made you all gentlemen,” sneered Ould, “present 
company of course excepted,” with an ironical bow. 

“He’s made us all fighters!” the Captain continued, too 
much in earnest to notice the gibe. “He has taught us 
all to go in to win instead of counting heads and thinking 
only of coming out with just the best of it! He’s taught 
us to sink, burn, and destroy, yard-arm to yard-arm, in- 
stead of standing off and playing at long bowls! Fashion 
be d—d! He’s gone back to old Hawke and made 
Quiberon the fashion, that’s what he has done! ‘There 
will be no more First of Junes and no more Hothams, 
thank God! Fashion? Didn’t the Nile set a fashion 
and set such a fashion as was never known before! Was 
ever such a victory dreamed of—twelve ships taken out 
of fourteen—till he won it?” 

“Bravo, George!” laughed my lord. “Youve mouthed 
it finely. J did not know that you had it in you, begad!” 





“At the battle of the Nile, I was there all the while. 
I was there all the while at the battle of the Nile,” 


hummed the Colonel, slily. He had not failed to note the 
Captain’s little weakness. 

“But Duncan?” argued Lord Robert. He was still 
young and capable of catching the spark. “Surely 
Duncan 4 

“Oh, Duncan? A sound man,” the Captain granted, 
a little ashamed of his outburst. “But Nelson taught him 
the trick at St. Vincent.” 

“And you may take it from me,” said the Colonel, 
sticking to his point because he saw that it annoyed the 
Captain. “He taught them the other lesson too—to be 
heroes of the clouded cane as well as of the spontoon 





THE ROASTING OF GEORGE 163 


and to bear down on the donnas as stoutly as on the 
dons! Fred, my boy, you must look to your laurels, and 
to your governess, or he’ll cut you out under your nose! 
What are you going to do about it?” 

“Go to the ladies!” my lord replied, laughing. “Come, 
break up, break up! Or we shall be in disgrace again 
this evening! Someone shake the parson there!” 

Bobbie clapped the Captain on the shoulder as they rose. 

“Come, Admiral,” he said. “Let’s see you board the 
little craft! And if you don’t make a leg conformably, 
hang me if I don’t enter for the filly-stakes myself and 
cut you out!” 

The Captain’s strength did not lie in repartee. ‘“Con- 
founded ass you are, Bobbie!” he said. 

“And off the course too, Bobbie,” said my lord. “The 
young lady won’t be there.” 

“Oh, you know, do you, you sly dog! You are in her 
confidence. Then, gad, let’s have her down.” 

“Yes,” said Sir Austin, whose powdered head simulated 
a wisdom that he did not possess. “Why not? It seems 
a promising proposal.” 

“Then suppose you put it to her ladyship,” my lord said 
drily, “and see what she says.” 

“Oh!” Sir Austin replied, a little checked. “Well, if 
you put it that way I don’t know that I quite if 

“Nor I,” said my lord, more drily. 





CHAPTER XVIII 
THE DISCLOSURE 


Iv has been hinted that the tutor was not the only person 
who had overlooked from a window the scene of that 
morning. Lady Ellingham had witnessed it and won- 
dered and frowned. What did it mean, she asked her- 
self, and what was the girl doing out there, bare-headed, 
thrusting herself among the shooters when her place was 
in the schoolroom? It was unbecoming at the best, 
and my lady meditated a word in season that, without too 
much mortifying the young lady, would set her in her 
place. 

But when my lord joined the group and the debate, 
whatever its purport, seemed to be left to those two, 
my lady’s face fell into harder lines. She saw, and she 
thought that she understood. 'Too well she knew, alas, 
only too well she remembered his power of fascination, his 
attitude when he was set on conquest, the turn of his 
head, the tones of his voice, its appeal, its underlying 
fun! Only too well she knew the charm that he could 
throw over a simple girl, for had she not herself suc- 
cumbed to it—to be happy for a time and miserable, 
silently and proudly miserable, for three years past! And 
he was the same still, she thought bitterly; ever the same, 
seeking ever a new distraction, unable to resist a new face, 
and falling himself a willing victim to iss first woman 
who wooed. him ! 

“But not in my house!” she thought with passion, and 
unconsciously she pressed her nails into the palms of her 

164 


THE DISCLOSURE 165 


hands. “That I will not suffer! If she is to be the 
next, she shall go! She shall go whatever the cost! He 
may follow her if he pleases, but it shall not be under 
my roof!” 

And in a moment she was hot with a jealousy the 
strength of which she did not herself suspect. She 
watched and she lost nothing of that which passed. She 
noted the Captain’s indignant departure, the shrug with 
which Charlotte Froyle turned away, the Colonel’s sum- 
mons that dragged my lord at last and reluctantly from 
the governess’s side. “Always the same!’ she whispered, 
pacing her room, when they were gone. “Always the 
same! As light to love as to leave! Why—why was 
I born to love him still?” 

But when that afternoon she was so unfortunate as to 
witness the return of the two—in company again, and 
smiling and talking, and apparently on the most easy 
terms—what could she think? What but the worst? The 
dog with a bad name is hanged on slight evidence, and 
here, to a jealous eye, was proof and to spare. The fever 
in my lady’s breast burned fiercely, but, moved as she was, 
she was not one to act in haste. She had so long prac- 
tised self-restraint, she had so firmly settled it with her- 
self that her only armour against contempt lay in silence 
that she still hesitated. Though she suffered she hid her 
feelings and kept on her mask; and, slyly attacked by 
Charlotte Froyle, as they sat over their work, she foiled 
her friend with the old weapons. 

“The governess?” she repeated, and languidly held up 
her plain-stitch to the light. “Who recommended her, 
did you ask, Charlotte?” 

But she a little overdid her negligence, and “I suppose,” 
Charlotte replied, “you did not engage her without a 
recommendation !” 

“Without a recommendation? Oh, dear no. Of course 
not. Old Lady Elisabeth engaged her for me.” 

“Ah! Did she?” And Charlotte in her turn bent over . 


166 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


her tambour frame. “Don’t you think, my dear, that the 
young woman is a little forward?” 

“T haven’t noticed it. I hope not. Ann gets on with 
her better than I expected. And Ann,” with a sigh, “is 
difficult, you know. What made you think that, my dear?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. But the men”—Miss Charlotte 
was too wary to press directly on the sore point—“seemed 
to be making a good deal of her this morning. I confess, 
I thought her something of a minx, Kitty.” 

“T should be sorry to think that,” my lady answered 
judicially. “She’s young of course.” 

Now Charlotte, though a very handsome girl, was not 
quite so young as she had been, and her voice had a rasp 
in it when she replied. “Yes. But don’t you think it 
is unwise to make much of young persons in that class? 
Their heads are so easily turned !” 

My lady agreed, and added, “One has to be careful for 
their sake.” 

Charlotte bent over her frame and shot her last bolt. 
“T saw her coming in this afternoon,” she said. 

But Lady Ellingham was on guard. “Was she out? 
I hope that she came in in good time,” she said. And 
then her ladyship’s maid came in and said that it was 
time to dress, and the subject dropped. 

But insensible as the Countess seemed to the pricks of 
Miss Charlotte’s darts, they stung and rankled, though, 
schooled by her haughty spirit and long use, she betrayed 
nothing. At all times she moved among her company, 
among them but not of them, and with something of the 
stately dignity of a Handel minuet; at all times she lived 
a little aloof, accepting their homage—and with the excep- 
tion of Ould they were shy of her—with a coldness that 
she did not deign to mask. And they, deeming her ice, 
a woman without passion, shrank from a siege to which 
in the case of another woman in her position they might 
have been tempted. 

But under the lace that veiled her white bosom the 


THE DISCLOSURE 167 


fire burned. ‘To suspicions once kindled—and God knows 
she had had in the past only too much reason to suspect— 
all is fuel; and she watched and waited, even Ould who 
believed in no woman’s virtue and observed her curiously, 
having no clue to her thoughts. Then, one evening, a 
week later, having shepherded Charlotte from the table 
a little earlier than usual, she fancied that her hour was 
come. She heard as she sat, seemingly absorbed in the 
third volume of her novel, a light step cross the hall. 
The servants had retired to their supper—it could not be 
one of them; on the other hand she had not heard the 
door of the dining-room open, and for a moment, for 
some moments, she repelled the suspicion. But it re- 
turned and tormented her. The tread had been light, it 
had seemed to her to be stealthy; and after resisting the 
temptation for some minutes during which she heard 
no returning step, she yawned and threw down her book. 

“Oh dear!” she said. “Was that Ann?” She rose to 
her feet. 

Charlotte did not look up. “I heard nothing,” she said. 

“T think I’ll see. She’s a dreadful monkey, and if she 
runs about barefoot she’ll get this dreadful influenza. 
I think I will see.” 

She moved slowly down the room, and seemed to be 
undecided whether to go or stay. At last she appeared 
to make up her mind, she opened the door and went out. 
But in the hall, with no eyes upon her, she became a 
different woman. She stood, listening, her every sense 
on the alert, her face hard. A moment and a faint stir 
far above—on the second floor she judged—reached her 
ear. Still she hesitated, her jealousy and her pride at 
odds. Unfaithful he was—she knew it and all the world 
knew it, and every day she had to confront that knowledge 
with an impassive face. But under her roof, with one 
of her household, stealing out while his guests covered 
his absence and smiled at his dupe? That were too much 
to bear! To submit to that was impossible; and the 


168 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


struggle ended in pride making common cause with jeal- 
ousy and anger reinforcing both. She crossed the hall 
and with a light step she went up the wide shallow stairs. 
She loathed that which she was doing, and still more 
that which she was going to do. But what choice had she 
if she was not to connive at this horror? If she would 
put an end to it, if she would show him that there was 
a limit to the things that she would suffer, this was her 
chance. 

The staircase lay partly in shadow, though on each land- 
ing there was a lamp. Her slippered feet, as she ascended, 
made no sound, and the faint stir which she had heard 
above had ceased. But something had replaced it that 
was infinitely more disturbing, more convincing—the mur- 
mur of whispering voices, and once a low, half-stifled 
laugh. Ah, but that stung her, that smarted, and if she 
had hesitated before, if with each stair she had mounted 
more slowly, she hesitated no longer. The servants were 
shut away in their own quarters, and save for an occa- 
sional outburst of laughter from the dining-room the house 
was as still as the grave—until she was half way up the 
higher flight, between the first and second floors. Then, 
when no more than half a dozen stairs still hid the truth 
from her, she stumbled over her skirt and though she 
recovered herself she made sufficient noise to give the 
alarm. And the alarm was taken and taken on the in- 
stant. She heard a scuffle, a hurried tread crossed the 
landing, a door squeaked. And quickly as she sprang up 
the last stairs she was only in time to see the baize door 
swing to. 

He was gone! But the girl was there. She had risen 
from the settee that stood on the landing, and cowered, 
apparently arrested in the act of flight, her panic-stricken 
face turned towards the staircase and my lady. A lamp 
stood on a bracket not far off, and if ever light fell on 
conscious guilt the Countess was convinced that it fell 
on it now, as it lit up Rachel’s startled face. 


THE DISCLOSURE 169 


For a moment Lady Ellingham surveyed her victim 
with scathing eyes. Then, “You wicked, abominable 
girl!” she said, in a voice low, but quivering with abhor- 
rence. “In my own house! You!” And moving to the 
lamp she raised it and pitilessly threw its light upon 
the shrinking girl. “You dare! You! In my house!” 

There are situations in which innocence or what a mo- 
ment ago and before the light fell on it, passed for in- 
nocence, suffers all the pains of guilt; and Rachel startled 
both by the desertion of her lover and the shock of detec- 
tion, endured almost as much as if she had been the guilty 
thing that the Countess deemed her. Her conscience was 
not clear; and surprised in this clandestine meeting and 
dazzled by the light she fancied for a moment that she 
deserved Lady Ellingham’s words. She winced under the 
elder woman’s scorn and did for an instant look the thing 
she passed for. 

“You abandoned creature!” the Countess said, and her 
words cut not the less deeply because she kept her voice 
low. 

But this Rachel found too much. Her senses were 
returning, and she knew that she had not deserved this. 
She revolted. “Oh, but I am not that!” she quavered. 
““How—how dare you say it?” 

“How dare you be it?” the other retorted with burning 
eyes. 

The Countess’s passion indeed was such that it almost 
overpowered Rachel anew, and the girl clasped her hands 
in appeal. “Oh, but indeed, indeed I am not,” she pro- 
tested. “You have no right to say it! Noright! I did 
but af 

“You met him here! Do not lie, wretched girl! You 
have been with him! You met him here—alone and se- 
eretly. He left you this moment. I heard him go!” 

“Yes, but—oh, you must hear me!” Rachel insisted, 
distraught. “You must hear me! It is true we met— 
here. There was nowhere else that we could meet. It 





170 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


was wrong perhaps, but don’t,” in distress, “don’t look 
at me like that, Lady Ellingham. I have done nothing 
to deserve such looks. And if I could tell you all, if I 
could explain at 

But in face of that which seemed to her so shameless 
an avowal the Countess could not contain herself; and 
unfortunately Rachel in the agony of her pleading laid 
a hand on her sleeve as if to compel her to listen. “Tell 
me? Explain?” my lady cried, and with a gesture of 
loathing she plucked her dress from the pollution of the 
other’s touch. “You—you would dare to tell me why 
you met him—here, alone, by stealth? Why, girl, have 
you no shame left at your age? No modesty? That you 
dare to say to my face that you—oh!” breaking off with 
an exclamation of impotent contempt, “that men should 
be such fools as to be caught by the white face of such 
a little wanton as you!” 

Rachel flinched as if she had been struck. The word 
_ pricked her to the quick, but it also spurred her to ac- 
tion, it stung her to defend herself at all costs. She must 
protect herself—he could not wish her, branded with that 
name, to be silent! And quivering with indignation, 
“You insult me, Lady Ellingham, grossly, wickedly!” she 
cried, in a tone that the other had not yet heard. “And 
I claim a hearing. I will be heard. I have done nothing, 
nothing to deserve such a word! No, ma’am, nothing! 
It is true, quite true that I met Mr. Girardot here 
and——” 

“Mr. Girardot ?” 

“Clandestinely! I admit it, and I was wrong! But 
we had no other place to meet—I would not receive him 
in the schoolroom—and we are betrothed. He did not 
wish it to. be known yet, but after what you have said 
I am sure that he would wish me to—to speak. He has 
asked me to be his wife.” 

Lady Ellingham stared. “Impossible!’’ she exclaimed. 
But she set the lamp back in the place from which she 





THE DISCLOSURE . 171 


had taken it, and her tone, her face, her manner, all were © 
altered. “Impossible! Mr. Girardot?” She looked hun- 
grily at the girl. She devoured her face with her eyes. 

“No,” Rachel said firmly. “It is not impossible. It 
is so.” 

“And he was with you—here? Now? Mr. Girardot?” 

“You heard him go,” Rachel answered. But she winced, 
for how could she explain even to herself his desertion of 
her? And the flight that left her to face this trouble? 

“You tell me solemnly,” the Countess persisted, “that 
it was Mr. Girardot that I heard go from you?” 

“Lady Ellingham,” Rachel protested, trembling with 
indignation, “why do you doubt me? Who should it be? 
I have told you the truth.” 

The Countess covered her eyes with her hand. She 
tried to think. She had not betrayed herself? No, she 
had been stopped in time. And that was something! 
Thank God for that. But what was it that she had said 
to the girl? How far had she gone? So far that she 
must go farther. She could only set herself right by tell- 
ing the girl the truth, and indeed she must tell her—she 
owed it to her to tell her. “Mr. Girardot is to marry 
you?” she said, looking again at Rachel, and this time 
with pity in her eyes. “Did I hear that aright?” 

“You did,” Rachel said with dignity. “Though I fear 
that I may have displeased him by avowing it. It was 
his wish that our engagement should be private—for a 
time.” 

“Why rake 

“For certain reasons, Lady Ellingham.” 

“What were they, if you please?” 

“He thought that you might not like it,’ Rachel con- 
fessed, losing a little of her dignity. 

“For no other reason that he gave you?” 

ral ta Bid 

“Then I can tell you one,’ Lady Ellingham said firmly, 
“that he did not tell you. And one more to the point. 


172 QUEEN'S FOLLY 


If you are sure,” with a penetrating look at the girl’s 
face, “that you do not know it? Are you sure that you 
do not know it?” 

“T do not.” Rachel tried to speak with confidence, 
but there was a shade of hesitation, even of pity in the 
Countess’s manner, and her heart misgave her. “Unless, 
indeed,” she continued in a lower voice, “he wished it to 
be our secret—between us.” 

“TY fear he did wish that,” Lady Ellingham said, “but 
it was not his true motive. Miss South, he is deceiving 
you,” she continued very gravely. “I too undertook to 
keep a secret for him, but I hold myself released by his 
conduct. Mr. Girardot may have promised to marry you, 
but he cannot do so.” 

Rachel recoiled and the colour left her face. “Why?” 
she said. 

“Because he is married already. He is a married man 
and his wife is alive.” 

“Oh, no, no! No! No!” Rachel cried, raising her 
voice and repeating the denial as if her disbelief would 
keep the thing at bay. “No! No!” she cried again. 
But she was white to the lips. “Do not say it! You 
are deceiving me!” 

The Countess regard her sombrely. “No, I am not 
deceiving you,” she said. “He is not a good man and it 
is he who has deceived you.” 

“Married?” She stared with wild terrified eyes at the 
elder woman. 

“T know that he is married. I have it from his own 
mouth. He was married before he came to us. And his 
wife is still alive.” 

The Countess fully expected that the girl would swoon 
or would burst into passionate sobbing. But Rachel did 
neither. She sank upon the seat which she had so lately 
shared with him and stooping forward with her face hid- 
den in her hands, she swayed herself to and fro. Once, 


THE DISCLOSURE 173 


twice a violent shudder convulsed her body and betrayed. 
the storm that raged within. 

The Countess looked at her with compassion and for 
a moment she hesitated. Then, “He is not a good man,” 
she went on, in a low voice, “if indeed there be any good 
men. And do you be thankful, oh, be thankful, girl, that 
you have learned the truth in time, and not, as others, 
too late! Be thankful that by God’s mercy I heard his 
step and followed him and found you. You have not 
loved him. You have loved, like many another, the crea- 
tion of your own fancy. From the reality, could you 
have seen him in his true colours, you would have turned. 
with horror. You have—you have but made the mis- 
take that all women make. But you are warned in time, 
you are spared the fate he had prepared for you—and how 
many are not spared! Oh, girl, whip up your pride! 
Think, think not of that to which you looked forward, 
but of that which he meant for you! Of that which you 
have escaped! And for the future trust no man, remem- 
ber, remember always,” she continued with growing feel- 
ing, “that there is no man who will not deceive you, who 
does not think you his prey, who when he has got from 
you what he wants will not trick you, scorn you, flout 
you with cold courtesy, dishonour you with a smiling 
face—ay, even though you bear his name, though the 
world call you wife and outwardly he keep faith with 
you! Trust him not, trust him not,’ the Countess con- 
tinued wildly—and had Rachel looked up she would have 
seen that the proud handsome face was distorted by pas- 
sion, “he will make you his plaything for a year and his 
scorn for life! Wife or mistress, lorette or lady, there 
is but one fate for us! To be used while it is their 
pleasure and cast off when it is their will!” 

Rachel rose, swaying on her feet. She kept her white 
stricken face turned away. “May I go?” she whispered 
with a convulsive shiver. She could bear no more. 


174 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


My lady’s thoughts had left her but they returned 
and she looked at her pitifully. “Yes, poor child, 
go,” she said. “Yet, think—think for your comfort 
how it would have been with you had you learned the 
truth too late! And, thank God, girl, thank Him on 
your knees that you have been spared.” 

Rachel tried to say something, but her parched throat 
refused to let the words pass. She had only one wish, 
one thought—to be alone, to hide herself with her misery. 
Blindly she groped her way to the swing-door, fumbled for 
the handle, and found it. With a dull sound the door 
fell-to behind her. 

“He will guess that I have told her,” the Countess 
thought. “For her, God help her, poor girl!” She 
looked after her with deeper feeling than any of her 
friends would have placed to her credit. She stood for 
a time, staring at the lamp and passing her handkerchief 
over her lips. Then she went slowly back to the drawing- 
room. 

Charlotte looked up from her work. “What a long 
time you have been,” she said. 

“Yes, I was detained.” 

“There was nothing the matter, I hope?” 

“No,” my lady said negligently, “as it turned out, 
nothing. But it was well that I went up. Have you 
finished the spray of roses?” 


CHAPTER XIx 
A Guass oF WINE 


A KEEN, bright morning had followed a night of frost, a 
hard frost coming late in the winter. The sky, pale-blue 
and veiled in mist towards the horizon, was without a 
cloud. ‘The sun, melting the hoar that had gathered on 
the grass, was reflected from a million pin-points bright 
as diamonds. The sound of a squirrel munching. beech- 
mast, or of feet pressing through the dried bracken, could 
be heard forty paces away. The smoke from the many 
chimneys of Queen’s Folly rose straight upward, and 
about the entrance the robin, man’s friend, and the spar- 
row, his parasite, awaited his operations in hopeful 
expectancy. 

Colonel Ould, with all his faults, was a sportsman; and 
the prospect of a bright day in the open drew him early 
from the house. But early as he was, the Captain was 
before him, and Ould could not withstand the temptation 
to plague him; a dislike, natural between two men so 
different, was augmented by the rivalry that in that day 
existed between the services. “Hallo, George,” he said, 
“looking for the early—governess, eh? No, she’s not out 
yet. I haven’t caught so much as the gleam of her petti- 
coat for a week past.” 

“Well, I haven’t either,” the Captain replied snappishly. 
“She is not well, I am told.” 

“So I hear too. All the better for Ann! And I'll bet 
that quaint little devil will make the most of it. I sus- 
pect she’s pining for you, George.” 

“Who? Ann?” 

175 


176 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“No, the little filly.” 

“You be hanged,” the Captain retorted. “I see no more 
of her than you do.” 

“But I don’t look for her. And you seem to know 
more about her than most of us. ‘Talk of the devil, here’s 
her next door neighbour! Good morning, Mr. Girardot.” 
He greeted the tutor with a cool nod. “You are early, 
Going into the forest?” 

“For a short time,” the tutor replied rather curtly. “I 
am on an errand.” He passed out through the great 
gates. 

Ould looked after him. “Got the black dog on his 
back,” he said thoughtfully. “No doubt about that. 
Now I wonder what’s the matter with him. Looks as if 
he had been ill! As if he had not slept for a se’nnight, 
by gad! Tl tell you what, my friend. I’m hanged if 
I would keep that good-looking Jemmy Jessamy in my 
house a day if I were Fred. I’m hanged if I would.” 

“Why gts 

“It’s not why, but if. If I had a handsome wife, my 
Trojan. That’s why.” 

The Captain, who was snapping the lock of his gun and 
trying the flint, looked up. “What ‘the devil do you 
mean?” he said. “You know you are too fond of that 
kind of thing, Ould. If I thought you meant anything 
by it i 

“Well? What?” 

“T should ask you for an explanation.” 

“And if I meant anything,” the other answered care- 
lessly, “you should have one.” 

They were verging on dangerous ground and both knew 
it; and the Captain’s temper was rising. Fortunately my 
lord appeared at this moment and joined them. “Hallo, 
hallo!” he said cheerily. “Bickering again, you two? 
What about? What about? What about? as the old boy 
at Windsor would say.” 

“What men always bicker about,” the Colonel replied. 





A GLASS OF WINE 177 


“Woman, lovely woman. Your establishment, if you 
must know, Fred. What of the little governess? George 
here has been out and on the look-out this half hour 
and not caught so much as the whisk of her petticoat. 
Says she’s ill—pining for him, I say.” 

My lord grinned. “I expect George made the chase too 
hot for her. But have you heard about Bobbie? Bobbie 
got Ann to take him up to the schoolroom—nothing he 
liked so much as a schoolroom tea. Only just out of it 
himself, d’you see, so it’s natural. Well, Bobbie was done 
to a turn! The little girl wasn’t showing—wasn’t well, 
she said, and Bobbie had to stuff thick bread-and-butter 
with Ann that the imp might not see through him! And 
what’s worse, my lady heard of it and smelled a rat, and 
turned the cold shoulder to the Beau at dinner! I saw 
there was something afoot and I wondered what he had 
done!” My lord laughed at the recollection. 

“Bobbie’s growing up,” said Ould. 

“Young puppy!” growled the Captain, and moved 
away towards the keepers. 

The Colonel’s eyes followed him, though his next words 
appeared to bear no relation to him. “I just saw that 
bear-leader of Bodmin’s go out,” he said. “There are 
the makings of a Don Juan about that young man, Fred, 
‘unless I am mistaken.” 

“Yes, good-looking chap. Plays the devil in the village, 
ll wager. But the boy likes him.” My lord liked every- 
body, had a good word for every one, called the men by 
their names and chucked the maids under the chin—was 
hail-fellow-well-met with everybody—with one exception. 

The two moved away to join the rest of the party. But 
Ould, who loved mischief and had a rare nose for a secret, 
was thoughtful. He had remarked the tutor’s drawn face 
and feverish eyes and was sure that they meant something. 
Of the man’s relation to Rachel he had no inkling; of 
his surprising good looks there could be no question; and 
trained by habit to think the worst, and believing in no 


178 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


woman’s virtue, the Colonel began to suspect that he had 
hit on the secret of my lady’s coldness. 

He was so much taken with the idea—his favourite 
maxim was “The proper study of mankind is woman”— 
that early in the afternoon he fell out of the line on the 
ground that his Manton was out of order. Turning home- 
ward, he strolled thoughtfully back to the house. He 
alone of the party had laid some siege to the Countess, 
and his wits were sharpened, and his malice excited, by 
the complete failure of his efforts. But knowledge is 
power, and he reflected that there were more ways than 
one of arriving at an end. 

He entered by the side door and, ridding himself of 
his gun, placed himself on the watch at a window. He 
was well aware that the odds, even if he were right, were 
against his learning anything; but the tutor’s face had 
impressed him, he argued from it that a crisis of some 
kind was at hand, and the interval during which the men 
were abroad—and Charlotte Froyle had joined them—was 
one that favoured happenings. It was such an unguarded 
time as the cautious might use—and once on the track his 
patience was as great as his flair for mischief was acute. 

By and by, when he had been on the watch no more than 
five minutes, he was rewarded—against all the probabili- 
ties. He saw the tutor leave the house and make for the 
forest, and three minutes later he saw the Countess follow 
with every sign of haste. She went in the same direction. 

“By G—d!” the watcher muttered, slapping his thigh. 
“T believe ’m right! There’s for our spotless lady! 
But they are all alike! All of a feather! Well, if I 
don’t learn enough now to hold her, hang me for a fool!” 

He stood awhile, gazing jealously at the scattered trees 
that, leafless as they were, foiled his curiosity, and here, 
pressing in upon the gardens, there retreating to a greater 
distance, hid the secret that he must win. He considered 
the possibility of following the two, but he decided that 
the chances were too much against him. He did not 


A GLASS OF WINE 179 


know the woodland and could not count on surprising 
them. He contented himself with taking his hat and 
riding-coat, and thus prepared he awaited their return. 
“Let me but have a good look at my lady,” he thought, 
“and if she does not give away the secret I’m less clever 
than I think.” 

He had to wait some time. He saw the governess come 
in, but intent on higher game he paid no heed to her. At 
last he caught the flutter of a woman’s dress in the dis- 
tance, now appearing between the trees, now masked by 
a clump of hollies, and he acted. With a languid air he 
lounged across the hall and outside paused for a moment 
before the house, as if undecided which way to turn. 
Then, carelessly swinging his cane he sauntered away, and 
met Lady Ellingham a furlong or so from the house. 

Secretly he clapped himself on the back, for a single 
glance assured him that she was not herself. A less sus- 
picious eye must have remarked her flushed cheeks and 
over-bright eyes; she met him, moreover, with an embar- 
rassment singular in one so cold and self-contained. He 
chuckled to himself, confirmed in his worst impressions 
—this lily too was not without its stain! But he took 
care to mask his suspicions under an easy address. 

“T see you have been taking exercise,” he began. “I 
came home early, for my gun played me tricks and put me 
out of temper. But I am rewarded by this meeting. I 
hope I may have the pleasure of accompanying you to 
the house.” 

Her tapping foot—they had both come to a stand— 
betrayed her impatience. “Pray don’t do so,’ she said. 
“Don’t let me deprive you of your walk. I shall be at 
the house in a minute.” 

“T was merely strolling for pleasure.” 

“Then do continue,” she answered with decision. But 
he saw that her eyes avoided his and that her breast still 
heaved with the swell of a half-spent storm. “Do not 
let me divert you,” she added, with an effort at civility. 


180 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


With that she would have passed on. But he did not 
give way. He judged that it was time to unmask his 
battery. “You look a little disturbed,” he said, with 
solicitude. “The woods are lonely. Nothing has oc- 
curred to alarm you, I trust? You have not met with 
any impertinent who has ventured ie 

“Oh dear, no!” she rejoined. “Nothing of the kind.” 
But though she spoke with calmness, her changing colour 
betrayed a distress very unusual with her, and as she 
raised her hand to her mouth he saw that the hand shook. 
A little more, and he fancied that she would break down. 

Such signs meant much in such a woman. ‘They con- 
firmed all that Ould suspected, and he looked in the di- 
rection, whence she had come. “If I thought so—if I 
thought, Lady Ellingham, that any one had,” he said, “I 
would soon 4) 

“Oh dear, no!” she repeated eagerly. “Nothing of the 
kind. I have perhaps walked—a little too quickly.” And 
suddenly changing her tactics she invited him to return 
with her. “If you really were not meaning to go far?” 

He read her motive—she feared that if he went on he 
would discover the person with whom she had been in 
company. But he knew that already and it suited him 
to comply. He offered his arm, and, having learned to 
his cost that he was no favourite with her, he was 
strengthened in his suspicions by the docility with which 
she accepted the offer as well as by the unsteadiness of the 
hand that rested on his arm. 

Anew he patted himself on the back. He held her secret 
and in due time he would use it, and make his market 
of it. But the present was not the time, the secret would 
keep, and for the moment he refrained from pressing her 
further. In the hall he parted politely from her, trusting 
that she would speedily recover from her fatigue: and he 
went up to his room, whistling softly. He hardly knew 
whether he was better pleased with his own acumen, or 
with the prize on which he counted to reward it. But 








A GLASS OF WINE 181 


a little added proof would not be unwelcome, nor difficult 
to find now that he knew in what direction to look; and 
when he had that he would move. For the present, silence 
and open eyes. He was a man who liked to work in the 
dark, to lay his mine deep, and to apply the spark only 
when success was assured. 

But the Colonel had left one thing out of his count. He 
was politic when cool, but he was also one to whom his 
wit and the use of it were a constant temptation. He 
could not be long in company without desiring to shine, 
nor long among his fellows without seeking occasion to 
provoke them. And a disclosure made an evening or two 
later as the men, flushed with wine, were rising from the 
table, a disclosure that threatened his well-laid plans, 
proved too much for his prudence. 

It was Sir Austin who laid the train. “What’s this 
about that handsome fellow of Bodmin’s?” he asked, as 
he got a little unsteadily to his feet, the sherry decanter 
in his hand. “Going, my girl tells me. Is it true, Fred?” 

“He’s gone,” my lord replied, shortly for him. 

“Gone? Gone away? Yoicks!’ Lord Robert crowed. 
“What’s he been up to? Weeping virtue and aged father 
tearing hair, eh? That it? And immaculate Fred sitting 
in judgment as lord of the soil?” 

“Something of the kind,” my lord grunted, as he turned 
towards the door. ‘Come, it’s too late for the drawing- 
room. You’ve overstayed your welcome there, and you’ve 
punished the cellar enough. Who's for faro?” 

“Faro?” Ould repeated with a sneer. Like the others 
he had taken rather more wine that was good for him. 
“No, d—n faro! Let’s hear a bit about Joseph—far 
more amusing! Who’s the Potiphar’s wife that has fled 
and left her garment with him?” 

“Go to the devil!” my lord answered. “Come! Time, 
time!” He strolled out ahead of the company. 

“Costive, eh?” Bobbie said with a tipsy wink. 

“Very close,” old Froyle agreed, raising his eyebrows. 


182 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Deuced unlike him,” said a guest, who had come in 
from outside. “What is the story? Bit of scandal?” 

“There is no story,” the Captain said. He threw down 
his napkin and moved towards the door. Then he seemed 
to change his mind and turned about, waiting for the 
others. 

“Ts it that handsome dandy that I’ve seen with the boy ?” 
the strange guest asked. 

“The same,” Ould said, an angry glint in his eyes. 
“And if I may make a guess I fancy the young Adonis 
has raised his eyes a bit above him—a good bit above him. 
And Fred “4 

“What of Fred?’ There was a very ominous note in 
the Captain’s voice. 

“Fred? Oh, Fred has opened his!” the Colonel sneered, 
his chagrin getting the better of his prudence. 

The Captain made a hasty movement, but Bobbie struck 
in before him. “What? Opened his eyes?” he hic- 
coughed. “Lord, what a devilish joke! Id give all the 
money I’ve lost at White’s this twelvemonth to hear Fred 
holding forth as the moral man.” 

My lord put his head in at the door. “Whip up those 
skulkers, George,” he said, out of patience. “Are you 
going to stay there all night?” 

Sir Austin led the way out. Bobbie, still chuckling 
over Fred’s morality, tailed after. The Captain held back 
as if to give place to Ould, who was the last to move. 
But the moment they were alone, “Ould, what the devil 
did you mean?” he said. 

“A little lower tone, if you please,” the Colonel replied 
quietly, but there was an ugly look in his eyes. “By what, 
my friend?” 

“By what you said of that fellow—looking above him ?” 

“Just what I said. And V’ll wager he did not look for 
nothing !” 

“Then,” said the Captain slowly, “you’re a d—d swab, 
Ould!” and taking up the sherry which Froyle had poured 





A GLASS OF WINE 183 


out but not drunk, he flung the wine in the Colonel’s face. 
“And a liar besides !” 

The Colonel took out his handkerchief. “Thank you,” 
he said, and wiped his face and stock. “Cock-pit manners! 
But that’s enough. Very good!” 

“After you,” the Captain said, and he stood aside, 
pointing to the door. 

Ould bowed and went out before him, outwardly un- 
moved. The rencontre had sobered him, though it was not 
his first experience of the kind. But inwardly he was 
cursing himself for a babbling fool, who had thrown away 
such chances as remained to him. Whatever came of it, 
he saw that George and his own temper had spoiled his 
game. 


CHAPTER XX 
DOUBLE OR QUITS 


WHEN Girardot learned on the morning after the surprise 
on the stairs that Rachel kept her room, he guessed that 
the Countess had betrayed his secret; and foreseeing that 
trouble of more than one kind might come of it, he cursed 
his luck. But of Rachel at any rate, and whatever the 
consequences, he did not despair, he was far from despair- 
ing. His experience of the frailer sisters and their ways 
was warrant for him that with tact and some eating of 
humble pie he might regain both his influence and her 
confidence; and regain them under conditions which would 
make his final triumph the more easy and certain. 

But to effect anything he must get at the girl, he must 
see her, for it was only by his powers of persuasion and 
his personal charm that he could work. And this he 
failed to do. To a question casually dropped to Priscilla, 
the answer was that Miss South was not well; and when, 
venturing on a stronger step he sent Rachel a note by 
the schoolroom maid, ostensibly about a book, the note 
was returned to him unopened. He received it as if all 
were right, and with a word of regret that the young 
lady still ailed. But Priscilla’s solemn face warned him 
that he was suspected, and he dared go no further, for with 
all his audacity he shrank from addressing the Countess ; 
to whom for the rest he was careful to give a wide berth. 
He could only wait and watch. 

But with growing impatience, for he had not been wont 
to fail, or to be denied. He had taken what he fancied 
where he found it, desirmg things not too delicate, and 

184 


DOUBLE OR QUITS 185 


telling himself that without these stolen pleasures he would 
find his dull life intolerable. Now he saw the bird that 
he had captured escaping from the net, and the charm of 
its plumage grew on him with each moment of uncertainty. 
The prospect of disappointment blew passion to a white 
heat, and that which had begun as an idle fancy now 
possessed him. He pictured Rachel in every desirable 
light that experience suggested, and was consumed with 
longing, which seven or eight days of suspense, during 
which he neither saw her nor heard of her, did but aggra- 
vate. He persuaded himself that he had never loved be- 
fore, never known the pain of a thwarted pursuit; and 
beside this little girl, with whom he had intended to amuse 
an idle hour, beside the pale face that only a certain 
piquancy and a pair of soft eyes saved from insignificance, 
the rustic, full-blown beauties whom he had pursued lost 
their charm and faded to nothingness. 

Desire began to upset his balance. His eyes lost their 
sparkle, his voice its hghtness, he ceased to jest. He cut 
short the boy’s lessons and exhausted his strength in 
tramping long hours through the forest, angrily cutting 
down the undergrowth with his cane, and now cursing 
the girl, now pleading with her. He who had played with 
others was now the plaything and sport of his own feel- 
ings. He was possessed. 

But sooner or later, he told himself, she must appear, 
he must have his opportunity. She could not always hide 
herself. And on the eighth day, when he had begun to 
despair, he had at last the luck to see her slip from the 
house by the side door. The truth was that Lady Elling- 
ham had taken her to task and adjured her to rouse herself 
and to go out; and Rachel had done so, choosing a time 
when in the ordinary course he would be at his early din- 
ner. But the tutor had long lost appetite save for the 
pursuit; his only desire now was to fight the matter out, 
to test his influence, and, as he hoped and believed, to 
prove its potency. 


186 - QUEEN’S FOLLY 


On fire as he was—and impatience consumed him—he 
let a short time elapse, and then he followed. He cared 
little who saw him, yet across the open he preserved some 
decency. But as soon as the sheltering trees hid him, 
he lengthened his stride, he came near to running. He 
did not dwell on what he would say when he overtook 
her—he had passed beyond that. She had given him her 
first love, he had held her in his arms, he had pressed 
his kisses on her face; and experience assured him that 
these things formed a bond that in nine cases out of ten 
disarmed resistance. And she was so innocent, so soft, 
so yielding, he was sure that she had only to feel his near- 
ness, and his power, with a few sophistries, would be 
restored. 

Then at last he saw the flutter of her skirt between 
the trees, and almost running he came up with her. 
Breathlessness gave the necessary quiver to his voice. 
“Rachel! Rachel!’ he cried. He was pale and beads of 
perspiration, cold as the day was, stood on his brow. 

She heard, and turned with a movement of alarm; but 
it was he who was the more startled. For the girl who 
faced him in this wintry clearing of the wood was not 
the old Rachel, the Rachel of blushes and shy tremulous 
smiles, but a white thin-faced girl whose eyes, enlarged 
by the dark shadows under them, did not so much re- 
proach as accuse him. He felt the check, he could not 
but feel it, but he did what he could to recover himself. 
“Rachel! Rachel!” he cried, holding out his hands to 
her—and there was appeal enough and desperate appeal in 
his voice to touch any woman. “My dear, my dear, 
it has been terrible not to see you, not to hear you, not to 
know how you fared!” And he would have taken her 
that moment in his arms, as if he felt no doubt of her. 

But she looked at him with such solemn eyes, in a 
silence so heavy, that he faltered. To cover the check, 
“And you—ah, but I see that you too have suffered,” he 
continued. “You have suffered too, Rachel! I see it. 


DOUBLE OR QUITS 187 


I know it. You have been ill, wretched, anxious, as I 
have been. Have thought of .me as I have thought of 
you!” 

And still she did not answer. She only looked at him 
with sad condemning eyes. At last, “Please to go away,” 
she said. 

This was worse than he had feared, but he strove to put 
a bold face on it. “Go?” he exclaimed—and God knows 
there was no lack of passion in his voice. “Go and leave 
you, now that I have found you! Now that at last | am 
with you! Now that at last I have the joy of seeing you, 
of hearing your voice, of touching if it be but the hem of 
your gown! Oh, never, never, you do not mean it! You 
cannot mean it, cannot mean that a few spiteful words, 
a jealous woman’s tale have so changed you, have robbed 
me of all that I had won! You have more heart, more 
constancy than that! Dare, my dear, my own, dare to be 
guided by them!” And again with hungry eyes he would 
have taken her in his arms. 

But Rachel stepped back. “Don’t touch me!” she said. 
“Please to go away.” 

If she had scolded him he could have met it. If she 
had told him that he had sought her ruin and that her 
love was dead, he could have argued with her, he could 
have dealt with her. . But that “Don’t touch me,” and her 
dumb accusing eyes confounded the man. He saw that 
here was no play-acting, no virtuous pretence, but a real 
shrinking. And though he replied, and with passion 
enough, “Oh, but this is nonsense! Nonsense, Rachel! 
My own, my darling, you cannot throw me off like this! 
There is too much, too much between us!” he already 
felt the numbing hand of defeat. 

“There is nothing between us,” she answered in a low 
voice. “I have nothing to say to you.” 

“Oh, but af 

“T know the truth. Will you please to go away.” 

If the blood had risen to her face he would have known 





188 QUEENS (FOLLY, 


what to do, for he still believed that if he could hold her 
in his arms she would melt. But in drawing back she 
had placed a small bush between them, and though they 
were alone and she was in his power, he could not chase 
her from bush to bush. 

Force, then, he kept for a last resort, and he bent 
himself to move her by the strength of an appeal, to which 
with any other woman his haggard eager face must have 
given weight. “You are not fair to me!” he protested. 
“You believe all that is said against me! Said by a jeal- 
ous, a spiteful, a wicked woman! Atleast hearme! You 
must, you shall hear me, you shall hear my defence. What 
has been told you, what tales, what lies—” 

“Are you married?” She had but the bare question 
to put. 

And that bare question, cold and curt, upset him. He 
hesitated. If he lied would it avail him? The lie would 
be carried to Lady Ellingham and might be fatal to him 
in other ways. He tried to parry the thrust. “After a 
fashion, I am,” he said. “I confess it. Most unhappily, 
most unfortunately, most tragically—married.” 

Rachel shivered. “Will you please to go away then.” 

“Away? Rachel, Rachel,” he exclaimed, his voice throb- 
bing with feeling, “how hard! How can you be so 
hard, so cruel, so pitiless? At least hear me! Let me 
explain, let me tell you how slight, how shadowy, how 
unreal the bond is! Let me tell you my story, and instead 
of condemning me, you will feel for me, pity me, you 
will console me. Let me tell you i 

“T wish to hear nothing.” She shivered as she spoke. 
“Will you go away, sir.” 

“Not till you have heard me! No!” His temper 
spurred by balked desire was mastering him. “No, I 
will not!” 

“Then I will go,” she said. 

But he stood in the way. “No,” he said doggedly. 
“Not till you have heard me. No, by heaven, I will not, 





DOUBLE OR QUITS 189 


I will not let you go! You owe me that at least,” he 
continued with indignation. “Does all that you have 
sworn to me, all your affection, all your woman’s love 
come only to this—to throw me off at a word! Oh, my 
dear,” and again with a pathetic descent to prayer, he 
held out his hands to her, “have pity on me! Rachel, 
Rachel, my own, say that it is a dream, a nightmare from 
which we awaken! Say that nothing shall come between 
us, nor part us! There is but love in the world! There 
is but love, and beside it nothing matters, nothing serves, 
all is but form and show, not worth an hour of happiness 
—of such happiness as we may still know together! Oh, 
my dear,” and his voice quivered with feeling, “be true, 
be true to yourself. Have courage, have faith, shake 
yourself free from prejudices—ah, but I see—”’ breaking 
off with bitterness as he saw her recoil—“you fear me! 
You shrink from me!” 

“No,” she cried with indignation, “I shrink, sir, from 
myself! That I have let you—that I have suffered at 
your hands what I have, that I have been so blind, so 
dull! But how could you, how could you—when it was 
not you, not you I loved, but my own fancy, and as far 
from you as heaven from earth! And now—now that 
I have told you, sir, now that you know, I beg you, I 
implore you to leave me.” 

“T will not!” he cried. “No!” 

“Mr. Girardot 4 

“No,” he insisted savagely. “No, I will not.” He 
foresaw defeat, and disappointment maddened him. The 
cruel instincts that are ever a part of such a passion awoke 
in him. “Not until I have more than this, ma’am! This 
is talk! It may deceive another, but it does not deceive 
me. You are not a clod or a stone, though you would 
have me think it, but flesh and blood! You can feel and 
thrill and love, and I have proved it! You are a woman, 
and if, with my arms about you, you can still swear that 
you do not love me——” | 








190 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“But I do swear it!’ she cried. ‘The wildness of his 
words and the look in his eyes frightened her at last. She 
glanced aside, seeking a way of escape. 

He seized the advantage. “But I don’t believe you!” 
he rejoined. He sprang forward. Before she could 
evade him he had seized her by the arm and was drawing 
her to him. “Now,” he cried exultantly, “now [ll prove 
you wrong, my lady! You don’t escape me so easily! 
No, it is no use to struggle.” 

He was dragging her, fiercely resisting, into his embrace, 
when “Stop!” said a cold, authoritative voice. “What is 
this? What does this mean? Mr. Girardot! Surely 
you forget yourself!” 

“The devil!” he exclaimed, his passion quenched in an 
instant. He let the girl go. And as she stepped back, 
white, panting, her eyes wide, her hand pressed to her 
breast, he turned and saw Lady Ellingham, who, her 
colour high, stood awaiting his answer. As he did not 
reply, “It seems I come in season,” she said. “Miss 
South, I saw this gentleman follow you and I came after 
you, suspecting something of this. You had better go 
home if you are equal to it. I will myself hear his ex- 
planation.” 

The blood flooded Rachel’s face—what humiliation he 
had brought on her! But she bowed her head and as 
quickly as her shaking knees and palpitating heart would 
let her she moved away in silence and took the homeward 
path. My lady waited until she was out of earshot, then 
she turned to the tutor. “Was this another appointment?” 
she asked with irony. 

“Tt was not.” 

“Chance, I suppose, sir?” 

“No,” he rejoined defiantly. “If you must know, 
ma’am, I followed her.” 

“And meant to—to make the most of the occasion, it 
seems.” 

The surprise had been so complete that he had not yet 


DOUBLE OR QUITS 191 


recovered his self-possession. But his wits were already 
at work: already he saw that in a position so serious it 
might be as well, and all that was left to him, to risk 
fortunes already desperate on a single cast. The Countess 
had followed them—why? And this was the second time 
that she had followed them—why? His vanity cried aloud 
for compensation and at the same time suggested to him 
where he might find it; and audacious, impudent as the 
idea was, and amazing the volte-face, he had never been 
wanting either in audacity or impudence. 

“But now,” the Countess continued as he did not answer, 
“now, Mr. Girardot, you will be good enough to under- 
stand that there must be an end to this. I have had—too 
much patience, sir. You are of his lordship’s choice, you 
are here at his will and by his appointment, and I have 
so far been loth to interfere. But this is too much. 
This is a cruel, wicked, unmanly pursuit, and it must 
stop. It shall go no further under my roof.” 

He could see that she meant it and that he must either 
be crushed or he must risk his last stake. He bared his 
head and with a characteristic gesture he tossed back the 
hair from his forehead. He knew that the action became 
him. “You do not ask,’ he said gloomily, “what it 
means ?” 

“TY fear I know—only too well, sir.” 

“But not how it arose.” 

“T am not concerned with that. I am only con- 
cerned. i 

“But it is you—you who are concerned with that!” 
he cried impulsively, and turned his fine eyes full upon 
her, those eyes whose pleading had done so much execu- 
tion. “It is you, ma’am, you and no other, who are 
the cause of this—this folly, this madness, this delirium, 
for it is no more.” 

“T?” She could not believe her ears. 

But he had burned his boats, he was beyond the fear of 
her displeasure. “Yes, you,” he reptied hardily. “You 





192 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


and you only are the cause of this, of all this. He who 
falls from a height will catch at any stay, grasp at any 
straw, stop himself where he can, high or low. Will, re- 
pelled by a queen, be caught by a handmaid! I swear that 
it has been so with me, and you know it. Deny it if you 
can, ma’am. You must have known it, known how it was 
with me, how mad I was, and how unhappy in my madness 
this twelvemonth past! How high I aspired, how greatly 
I dared! For if my lips were mute, and my tongue was 
dumb, my eyes at least must have told you the truth.” 

She flushed darkly. “Mr. Girardot,” she said, “if you 
mean what you seem to mean ‘i 

“T do mean it!” he retorted, “and you do not doubt it, 
though you pretend to! For a year you and you only 
have filled my thoughts, owned my heart, enslaved me! 
Have been the world and all the world and more to me! 
This,” he flung a contemptuous gesture after Rachel, 
“served for a cloak, a cover, but it could not blind you. 
For I am flesh and blood and you would not own me, you 
despised me and looked down on me, and desperate ‘i 

“Desperate? No, but mad! You must be mad,” the 
Countess cried incredulously. “Oh, the audacity of it, the 
vileness of it! I cannot, sir, believe my ears. When you 
have just, when you have this moment—and heavens above, 
what reason, what ground have I ever given you that you 
should believe that you could——” 

“Ground?” he retorted savagely. “You? None, ma’am. 
But my lord—every ground. Ground to build as high as 
heaven! Did you think that any man with the blood 
of a man could stand by unmoved and see how he treated 
you? How he neglected you? How he betrayed you? 
How he outraged you? You might be patience itself, you 
might let his contempt sink you as low in the dust as your 
beauty set you high, yet did you think that any man 
worthy of the name could look on from day to day and 
bear it? Could see you so treated, so abandoned, so de- 








DOUBLE OR QUITS 193 


spised, without kindling? Could—no, ma’am, I will speak 
though I lose all—could be witness of your life from day 
to day without pitying you, without adoring you, without 
longing to devote his poor all to you. If you thought this 
then you have never known a man!” 

“T have never known a man—a bad man,” she cried 
viciously, “until now!” 

“But still a man,” he retorted. ‘And he who owns you, 
who dishonours you, who sets the cheapest above you—is 
no man!” ! 

“Oh, abominable!” she cried and in the impotence of 
her anger she struck the silver-headed cane that she carried 
so violently on the ground that it splintered. “Do you 
know that if I were a man I would kill you! Your 
love—oh, heaven!” 

“Tt would be heaven if you returned it!” 

“If I returned it? If?” The contempt in my lady’s 
voice was beyond words. “Hear me, listen! Listen, you 
—you miserable creature who can turn in a moment from 
the maid to the mistress and think your shift is not seen! 
Than the love—the word blisters my lips—of such a man 
I would rather bear my husband’s hate! I would cherish 
it, 1 would nurse it! J would rather have him though he 
beat me, starved me, shamed me, set a hundred women 
above me—than you! He is at least and at worst a 
gentleman, while you—but I soil my lips with you, I 
stain myself every moment that I stay in your company, 
look at you, hear you! That you—you should presume to 
me! You? To me! But enough. Enough, sir!” she 
continued with passion. “Let me not see you again. 
Leave this place at once, leave it this night! Make any 
pretext you please—you have store of them. But go, go, 
sir. For if I hear that you remain to-morrow I shall tell 
all to my husband and you will be whipped from the house. 
Oh, you are too much! You are impossible! You are 
incredible !” 


194 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


And without a backward look she turned and swept 
away. “Oh, vile! Vile!” she flung over her shoulder. 
She panted with rage. 

He might have darted after her and laid hands on her 
as he had laid hands on Rachel, for they were alone and 
no help was near. But he was beaten. The spirit and 
force of her denunciation had overwhelmed him, and the 
idea did not even occur to him. And—it went for some- 
thing perhaps—he did not love her. 

Instead he stood looking after her, and “D—n!” he 
whispered in an ecstasy of chagrin. He had staked all and 
lost all. But it was of Rachel’s pale face and tremulous 
lips that he thought. 


CHAPTER XXI 
THE BOWLING-GREEN 


Lapy ANN could sleep like a dormouse. She could sleep 
for ten hours at a stretch without moving so much as would 
free the torrent of her inky mane from her nightcap. But 
like most children she awoke early, was early afoot, and 
thenceforward became a torment to housemaids who with 
their brooms and pails desired nothing so much as to have 
the house to themselves. She had a way of sliding silently 
down the balusters and jumping on Jane’s back as she 
swept, or of slily pinching Martha’s defenceless calves as 
she scrubbed, which was very disturbing. Or she would 
invade Mrs. Jemmett’s room and plunder her buttered 
toast—such toast, hot and crisp, as the dining-room never 
saw—and be gone before the good woman discovered her 
loss. All was game that came to Ann’s net, but on these 
cold winter mornings, sport was scarce, and the _ best- 
natured housemaid prone to be crusty. 

Anything out of the common, therefore, was a godsend 
to Ann, and when on her way downstairs two mornings 
later she spied a gentleman descending before her she 
bounded down upon him, overjoyed. “By gum, Uncle 
George,” she cried, seizing his arm and hanging affection- 
ately upon it, “why are you up? And where are you go- 
ing? I'll get my hood and come with you.” 

The Captain turned upon her. “No, you won’t!” he 
said. “Sheer off and go back to bed, monkey! [Tm on 
business.” 

“Back to bed?” she replied with scorn. “Why, I’m 
dressed. I’m jiggered if Ido. Why!” and her eyes grew 

195 


196 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


big with surprise. “Here’s another! Bobbie, dear, what 
is it? Why are you up? You look as if you were going 
to a funeral!” 

“Then it will be yours!” the beau answered more sharply 
than even Uncle George had. He glanced at the Captain. 
“‘Here’s a bore,” he said—bore was a new word much in 
fashion then. “You run away and play, baby.” 

“T will—with you!” Ann returned. She danced deri- 
sively up and down and defied them both. 

The men’s eyes met. Then something in Bobbie’s ap- 
pearance seemed to strike the other. “Have you got— 
what we want?” he asked. 

“Confound it!”? Bobbie exclaimed, conscience-stricken. 
“What an ass I am! If I haven’t forgotten the neces- 
saries!” He turned and bounded up the stairs at much 
more than his usual pace. 

“See here, Ann,” the Captain said, when he was gone, 
and he stooped and kissed the child—a thing so uncom- 
mon, for his usual caress was a twist of the ear, that it 
impressed her more than the gravity of his tone. “You 
can’t come with us—we’re on business. So go back up- 
stairs, that’s a good girl. And when your mother comes 
down, give her my love—in case I’m not back to-day, you 
know.” 

“Why?” Ann cried aghast, for Uncle George was the 
first of all her favourites, ranking even before Charles the 
first footman. ‘“Ain’t you coming back ?” 

“Of course J am. But do you give her that message 
when she comes down—if I am delayed, d’you see.” 

Ann yielded reluctantly. “Oh, well,” she said. “All 
right, Uncle George, I’ll go. But you’re a pig not to let 
me go with you.” And her feet lagged as she crawled 
up the stairs. It was.too bad of him. But on the land- 
ing she met Bobbie hurrying down, and her eye was caught 
by something that he carried hidden under his coat. 
“Now what’s that he’s carrying?” Ann’s quick wits asked, 
as she flung a gibe at him in passing. “It is something 


THE BOWLING-GREEN 197 


he doesn’t want me to see.” And her curiosity aroused 
by these unusual proceedings she watched them leave the 
hall by the garden door. Then she dawdled away to her 
mother’s room, instead of waiting to give the message when 
my lady came down. 

Lady Ellingham had that moment left her bed and was 
in her wrapper, her feet bare. “Mother,” Ann said, firmly 
prepared to tease until she learned what she wanted to 
know. “What’s it all about? Why are Uncle George and 
Bobbie up so early? And what are the necessaries?” 

Her mother was thrusting one white foot into a slipper. 
“Are they up?” she asked. 

“Yes. And what are the necessaries, mother ?” 

“The necessaries, child? What do you mean?” My 
lady was feeling in a leisurely way for the other slipper. 

“Tt is what Bobbie called them.” 

“My dear, I wish you would call him Lord Robert. You 
are really too old to—were they going out?” 

“Yes, and Uncle George told me to give his love to you 
if he wasn’t back when you came down.” 

My lady looked startled. “But he’s not leaving to-day ?” 
she exclaimed, her attention caught at last. “I’ve not 
heard anything about it. Tell me, child. Did he say he 
was going?” 

“Oh, he’s coming back,’ Ann replied carelessly. “But, 
mother, what did he mean by the necessaries? Bobbie had 
them under his coat, and he took precious good care that 
I shouldn’t see them, the pig!” 

“They’ve gone out together ?” 

“Yes. I shouldn’t think they are out of sight yet.” 

With one foot still bare the Countess went quickly to 
the nearest window—the room looked on the garden. She 
drew back the curtain. She was just in time to see two 
heads pass bobbing along a side-walk which was divided 
from the open lawns by a box-hedge—pass and disappear. 

It was not the nearest way to the gate at the foot of 
the gardens for that was at the end of the middle walk, but 


198 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


it was the most private way and my lady’s face when she 
turned from the window frightened Ann. “What was it 
like that Lord Robert was carrying?” she asked, and she 
grasped the child’s arm to compel her attention. 

“A flat box, mother. It looked——” 

“And Colonel Ould left yesterday!” my lady exclaimed. 
“Oh, what—what can we do? If I were dressed!” Then 
pushing the child from her, “Ann, run—run after them! 
But no, no, stop!” She raised her hands to her head with 
a gesture of distraction that alarmed the girl. “Stop! 
They would not heed you! And the men? I know them, 
they will do nothing! Nothing!” 

“But what is it?” Ann whimpered, clinging to her 
mother. She was bewildered as well as frightened. 
“What is it, mother? What is the matter?” 

“They are going to fight! Yes, they are going to fight 
and—no, Ann, stay where you are, you will do no good! 
Who can? Whocan! They will not heed a servant, but— 
yes, she may delay them at least. She may if I am quick!” 
And without a thought of her hair tucked under her night- 
cap or of her bare foot, my lady sprang to the door, opened 
it and hurried along the corridor and up the grand stair- 
case, which certainly had never seen her in that disarray 
before. The frightened child followed, questioning her, 
but in vain. My lady did not pause until she had swept 
through the swing door and stood in the passage before the 
door of the governess’s bedroom. She knocked sharply— 
knocked again without waiting for an answer. 

“Miss South! Miss South!” she cried in a voice that 
haste rendered breathless—the voice that men use when 
they cry “Fire! Fire!” “Are you dressed?” 

The girl was dressed, and taking the alarm had the door 
open in a second. She saw Lady Ellingham in her 
wrapper, and she stared. 

But my lady clapped her hands. “Thank God, you are 
dressed!” she said, pouring out her words one on the top 
of another. “Listen! ‘There is mischief, terrible mis- 


THE BOWLING-GREEN 199 


chief! A duel! They are going to fight, and there is no 
one but you to go! Go, for God’s sake, after them! 
Stay them, delay them—do something, girl. I will fol- 
low. Oh!” as Rachel instead of moving stood paralysed 
by this sudden demand, “don’t stand there, but go!” 

“But who? Where?” Rachel stammered. 

“Oh, what does it matter?” with a gesture of despair. 
“George! Captain Dunstan! Beyond the lower garden! 
The bowling-green—it has happened there before! Go, 
girl, don’t lose a minute! Keep them in talk till I come. 
Oh!” she cried, wholly forgetting herself in her distraction 
—and no one could have been less like the Lady Elling- 
ham of every day—* if I am to lose my only friend! My 
only friend!” 

The appeal and her despair shook Rachel into action. 
“Yes, yes, I will go!” she cried. She seized a cape that 
hung on the door within reach of her hand. “I will do 
what I can! But, oh dear, ma’am, they will not listen 
to me!” 

“They will! They will!’ The Countess clapped her 
hands. “Don’t heed what they say! They cannot fight 
before you. Keep them, keep them!” She flung the 
words after the girl who was already at the stair-head. “T 
will follow! Oh, how wicked, how stupid men are!” 

Rachel flew down the stairs. She was outside the house, 
she was facing the bite of the frosty morning, and racing, 
a small flying figure, down the middle walk of the garden 
before she had steadied her thoughts sufficiently to reflect 
on what was before her. Her first impulse was to rebel. 
Why, why had this been cast on her, ill-equipped as she 
was to meet it, and unequal to thrusting herself forward 
or imposing herself on others? Her nerves shrank, and 
she sickened at the thought of her task. But she must go 
through with it now, and she did not slacken her pace; 
and the first moment of recoil past, the issues at stake 
claimed her, cried shame on her that she should have hesi- 
tated even for a second. Life or death hung on her 


200 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


courage, depended on her speed—the life of one whom my 
lady loved, and who brusque, rough, masterful as he had 
been to her—and there had been times when she had almost 
hated him—had with all his arbitrariness been kind and 
human ! 

Now he was in danger that she might avert, and in dan- 
ger how great the Countess’s distress proved! For my 
lady’s sake she must hurry! It would be time to think 
what she would do when she reached the spot. 

She ran down the steps to the lower level, and hastened 
at speed through the orchard to the garden gate. It was 
of iron, heavy to open, and it was only by the use of all her 
strength that she got it open. She passed through it, she 
was in the park. ‘The bowling-green, a sunken green space 
enclosed by trees, lay away to her left at a distance of 
nearly a quarter of a mile. The path to it diverged from 
the main track about two hundred yards from the gardens, 
and already, what with her haste and the trouble she had 
had with the gate, she was faltering. Her breath was 
failing, her heart pounded, her skirts dragged her down. ~ 
She had to walk, her eyes searching desperately the open 
ground before her. 

But the thought of the issues that hung on her speed 
goaded her, she ran again, walked, ran anew. By this 
time she was near the place where the path turned off, but 
the scattered trees were beginning to dance before her eyes, 
she was giddy, her sight was failing. And then, oh joy! 
at the junction she saw a man. He stepped out to meet 
her. 

“Are you out to stop *em, miss?” he asked, and he too 
seemed to see the need of haste. “This way! This way, 
miss! But you must be quick!” He beckoned to her to 
follow him along the main path. 

“Am I in time?” she gasped. The man’s company was 
some support. 

“Jf you are quick, miss!” he replied. “Come along!” 

She responded bravely, for her second wind had come, 


THE BOWLING-GREEN 201 


and she hurried after the man, her eyes questioning each 
turn of the path—it ran across the open but on either 
hand were clumps of trees that masked the view. But 
when she had followed her guide a hundred yards without 
result, doubts began to assail her. The Countess had 
said—the bowling-green! The bowling-green! She had 
not seemed to doubt that that would be the place. And in 
a moment Rachel jumped to the conclusion that the man 
was tricking her—that he had been posted there to guard 
against intrusion. 

She acted on the thought. Without a word she left the 
path for the open sward and made across it towards the belt 
of trees that fringed and concealed the bowling-green. 
Her guide called after her, argued, scolded. But she did 
not heed. Picking up her skirts she stumbled on over the 
rough turf, and though she could have collapsed with 
fatigue, she toiled on, making such way that she reached 
the trees before the man who had started after her over- 
took her. 

“You’re all wrong, miss!” he swore. “You’re losing 
time! It is not here I tell you!” 

But she turned a deaf ear. She caught the sound of 
voices before her—of one voice at any rate, sharp, loud, 
insistent; it seemed to be giving an order. Heavens, if at 
the last she should be too late! She did not think what 
she would say or what she would do. She stumbled on, 
burst through the laurels beneath the fringe of trees, saw 
below her the open sunk space, saw figures stationed here 
and there upon it. 

“Stop! Stop!” she cried. “Oh, stop!” 

But her voice had lost its power and only those nearest 
to her heard her. She had time to see that the figure 
standing stiff and erect abreast of her—for she had emerged 
towards one end of the green—was Captain Dunstan, that 
he was levelling a pistol, and that he started as she spoke. 
Then the pistols cracked, a tiny jet of smoke eddied be- 
fore her. She saw him stagger, but he kept his feet. 


202 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Ah! 

There was an old bench beside her, and she clutched the 
back of it, supporting herself. She saw Lord Robert and 
another man step to the Captain’s side, and for a second. 
or two she was still in the dark. Then she saw Lord 
Robert pass his arm round him, heard the beau’s words 
“Bad luck!” and she understood. 

“Tt?s nothing! Nonsense!” That was the Captain 
speaking. “There, let me be, man! I can ” He 
tried to push the others away, but he swayed on his feet. 

“No, you can’t, sir!” the second person who had come 
to his aid replied. He supported the wounded man on 
the other side. “It is not much,” he continued briskly, 
“but it’s enough. If you can walk to that seat? Now, 
my dear sir, don’t exert yourself. Lean on us! Leave it 
to us!” 

They moved, half carrying, half supporting the Captain 
towards the seat by which Rachel stood. Midway to it, 
and while fascinated, she watched them, a fourth man 
joined them and exchanged a few words with them, raised 
his hat and walked quickly away. But Rachel had no eyes 
for him. Her whole attention was given to the group of 
three who approached the seat. As they drew near she fell 
back a pace or two. 

The Captain still grumbled. “Confound you, why 
didn’t you let me be? I could have held for another shot!” 
Then, as they let him down on the seat, “I’ve had worse. 
Why didn’t you let me be? If you’d let me be Hf 

“Nonsense, sir,” said the doctor, for such Rachel guessed 
him to be. “Might have been worse, but it is enough. 
Keep still and don’t try to help yourself. We'll soon have 
you comfortable.” 

“T lost him for a moment.” That was the Captain’s 
voice again. 

“Yes, yes, I saw,” the doctor said. “We all saw. A bad 
business. Don’t talk. Let me see what it is.” 

Rachel watched them shitting up the arm of his coat 








THE BOWLING-GREEN 203 


and cutting away his shirt. His linen was bedabbled with 
blood, but to her surprise she felt no inclination to faint. 

The surgeon examined, felt, probed with deft fingers. 
“No great harm!” he said cheerfully. “Just winged! 
But I must have you in bed before I can do more.” He 
looked over his shoulder. He saw the man who had inter- 
cepted Rachel. “Run to the house,” he said. “Go to the 
back. Say nothing, but bring a chair and two men. 
Hurry, man!” 

“Where did my shot go?” That was the Captain again, 
his voice perceptibly weaker. 

“Wide,” said Bobbie. His eyes travelled to the girl. 

“T’ll put on a dressing,” said the doctor. He did it 
rapidly. “Here, if I had something to pass round him— 
this bandage is too short.” He looked round him, holding 
the bandage in place. He seemed to be at a loss. 

She did not stay to think. She unwound the sash that 
she wore about her waist and held it out, mutely offering 
it. Her eyes met the Captain’s, and she shrank again out 
of sight. But not until the doctor had taken the sash. 

“Excellent!” he said with a sharp glance at her. “Hx- 
cellent, ma’am! The very thing!” 

“Ay,” said Lord Robert in a tone not meant for her ear. 
“A hair of the dog that bit him, eh? If she hadn’t come 
up just then ny 

“Oh, unlucky, d—d unlucky,” the doctor replied. ‘Well, 
well!” 

Something more passed between them that poor Rachel, 
now more than suspecting the unlucky part she had played, 
did not catch. Then Lord Robert turned to her. “If you 
are able,” he said courteously, “will you return to the 
house and tell the housekeeper that Captain Dunstan’s bed 
will be needed ?” 

“A mattress, not the bed,” the doctor corrected. “And 
hot water and sponges, ma’am. And perhaps you could 
break it to her ladyship.” 

Rachel assented, but her eyes asked a question. 





204 OULEN S| FOLLY 


The doctor understood. “You can tell her ladyship that 
it is nothing serious,” he said. 

Rachel hastened away, bearing so much of comfort. But 
she knew now that her unlucky appearance had distracted 
the Captain at the critical moment. And they all knew it! 
She longed to hide her head and her failure. And if he 
died? ‘That was a thing too terrible to think of! 

By the garden gate she met Lady Ellingham, hurrying 
with a pale face to the scene, Ann hanging on her arm. 
She had learned the result, and Rachel was thankful that 
she could give the doctor’s assurance. But that done, the 
girl could not let well alone. In her candour she must 
needs blurt out the truth. “And, oh, I am afraid, I am 
afraid, Lady Ellingham, that it was my fault,” she wailed. 

“Yours? Your fault?” My lady bent a pale frowning 
face on the trembling girl. “How? What do you mean?” 

“T called out—when they were just going to fire. And, 
oh, I am afraid that it—it put him off.” 

“Then you were a perfect fool!” Lady Ellingham ex- 
claimed cruelly, and without a second look went off, leay- 
ing Rachel to proceed more unhappy than before. Why 
hadn’t she looked before she spoke? Waited, done any- 
thing but what she had done? 

Then she met my lord, also hurrying, with a clouded 
face and his stock in his hand. She gave him the doctor’s 
message. He nodded, d—d Ould with unction, and ran 
on, while she, her knees trembling under her, sought Mrs. 
Jemmett’s room. By this time the house was alarmed and 
in commotion, but she found the housekeeper and did her 
errand. 

“A plague on them nasty pistols!” Mrs. Jemmett said. 
“T wish they were all at the bottom of the Red Sea! Where 
is he hit, miss?” 

“Tn the chest, I am afraid,” Rachel said with a shudder. 

“Is he spitting blood, miss?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Then he’ll do, and thank God for that! But it’s al- 


THE BOWLING-GREEN 205 


ways the best that’s taken. I could burn that Colonel and 
joyful.” 

She bustled away with that. She had no thought to 
give to any one so insignificant as the governess. But for- 
tunately, as the girl dragged herself across the hall she met 
Bowles, and Bowles, though he too had his hands full, 
had an eye for feminine distress. He bade her stay, 
fetched a glass of Madeira and forced her to drink it. 
“Now you go and lie down, miss,” he said. “It’s all you 
are fit for, and you can do no good.” 

So at last she was free to lock her door and review in 
misery of spirit what she had done and the part that she 
had played; and this unhappy event coming on the top of 
so much that had tried her, and aged her, that had sapped 
alike youth and buoyancy, seemed to be the last blow of 
misfortune. She felt that this was the climax. 

She did not suspect that it was in truth the beginning 
of recovery. She did not guess that the call on her nerves 
had done her good and not harm, that it had shaken her 
out of herself and her own troubles, and had gone some 
way and not a little way to divert the trend of her thoughts, 
Like a freshening breeze, blowing into a sick-room and 
expelling unhealthy vapours, it had cleansed her mind of 
obsessions: and thrusting before it more serious issues, had 
forced her to think of life and death as facts of import, of 
import graver than either a man’s treachery or a girl’s 
weakness. It was a tonic, sharp, but wholesome. 


CHA PIPE: Xocre 
THE RETURN OF A SASH 


For an hour or two there was some doubt how it might go 
with the wounded man, and the anxiety which was felt, 
below stairs as well as above, spoke well for his popularity. 
At a time when many of the characteristics of the fop still 
clung to his class, the bluff manners that the Captain had 
learned at sea might have incurred dislike; and in a 
household strange to his ways he would probably have been 
condemned offhand. But in the house which had known 
him both as the Master George, who with pinched lips but 
dry eyes had exchanged the comforts of home for the ten- 
der mercies of the cockpit, and as the Captain, posted 
amid the flaming glories of the Nile, he was regarded more 
indulgently; and this although man and maid flew at his 
bidding, and he was known to be capable on occasion of 
hurling a boot at his servant’s head. But the man had 
served with him; and if Onions’s stories of the state in 
which his commander lived, and the awful and lonely 
dignity he maintained when afloat, meant anything, the 
boot should have taken high rank as a compliment. 

To quote Onions: “Orders, bless your innocence, man! 
He don’t give no orders! He just looks, and the swabs 
of leutenants slips down to leeward and sings out 
a-trembling! Orders! No, no more than the King in 
his crown! All as you'd ever hear in a twelvemonth’d 
be ‘Three dozen, my man!’ or ‘Close action!’ says he, and 
shuts up his glass, as you or me might spit on our hands. 
‘Lay her aboard!’ says he. “The men may cheer!” 

206 


THE RETURN OF A SASH 207 


However, an hour or two put an end to doubt, the 
bullet was extracted, and by noon the surgeon pronounced 
him much weakened by loss of blood, but out of danger. 
The house breathed again, and turned with zest to the dis- 
cussion of details. Onions, who had stood sentry at the 
parting of the paths, told his tale, and within an hour 
his story and the part that Rachel had played in it were 
in all mouths. 

And below stairs only one conclusion was drawn from it: 
that the little governess was at the root of the trouble. 
Amazing, incredible! That trumpery! But what else 
could they think? Mrs. Jemmett alone declined to believe 
in the story, and scolded Bowles for upholding it. 

“Nonsense, man!” she said. “D’you think the gentry 
has no eyes in their heads to quarrel about the likes of 
her! Or that rake-hell of a Colonel that knows more 
than he ought of half the Lady Jennies in London—and. 
light skirts they are, the one half of them!—would look 
at her! And the Captain who hasn’t a word to throw at 
a petticoat, be it ever so! Though I’m thinking there’s 
one ready enough to listen to him, and that’s Miss Froyle, 
and no other.” 

“Tt’s her eyes,” said the butler sententiously. 

“And you think that they quarrelled about them!” 

“T wasn’t there to see, ma’am,” Bowles replied pa- 
tiently. “All I say is, it looks like it.” 

Mrs. Jemmett rubbed her nose. “She’s a pretty sly 
puss if it is so.” 

“Well, if you ask me, Mrs. J., there’s more about her 
than you think for. What took Mr. Girardot off all of 
asudden? You tell me that!” 

Mrs. Jemmett stared. “Why, goodness gracious, man, 
you don’t mean to tell me as she’s carrying on with all 
three of *em? And her with nothing to her and not half 
the looks of Jane the housemaid, that is good red and 
white at any rate!” 

“Well, who lives the longest will see the most,” said 


208 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Bowles. It was a favourite saying of his and earned him 
a reputation for foresight. 

Meanwhile above stairs, where they should have known 
better, the theory won its way on higher authority. Nat- 
urally the first person to be questioned was Lord Robert. 
But the beau could say no more than that the Captain 
had flung a glass of wine in Ould’s face, and that me- 
diation had been out of the question.. Further, that 
Ould’s second had told him that there was a woman at 
the bottom of it; and that was all that Lord Robert could 
say. 

But what woman? My lord, curious and fereseeing 
a lasting joke against his sedate brother, went to the 
fountain-head and, as soon as the Captain was in a 
condition to talk, put the question. “Deuced glad it’s 
no worse, George,” he said. “Devilish glad! But who’s 
the lady? Not Charlotte Froyle, [ll go bail! Why Vd 
as soon go to war about a piece of bread and butter—and 
dry at that.” 

Not seeing as clearly as he might have seen whither 
this was tending, Captain George hastened to clear Char- 
lotte. “Miss Froyle?” he said with gusto. “Lord, no!” 

“Well, if it wasn’t Charlotte, who was it?” 

“Oh, stow it!” This time George spoke with irrita- 
tion, his face, which was palet than usual, taking a tinge 
of colour. 

“But put her out, and there’s only—by gum, George!” 
My lord grinned abominably. “I see! The little govern- 
ess, by Jove! So we weren’t far wrong when we roasted 
you, eh? Damme, I’d a sort of a notion of it from the 
time she boarded you that morning—outside, you remem- 
ber? And Ould, the old sinner, was trailing the same 
petticoat! Well, I am hanged!” 

“Oh, stow it, Fred!” the Captain repeated uneasily. 
“And whatever you do, for God’s sake keep a still tongue !” 
But he did not deny the charge, for he saw now that my 
lady alone remained, and her name must be kept out 


THE RETURN OF A SASH 209 


at all costs. It would never do for Fred to learn that 
they had fought about her, while he who should have 
defended her honour stood aside and did nothing. 

So presently down goes my lord bursting with the jest— 
never had he had such a pull over his Joseph of a brother 
as this! 

It was so good a thing that, in spite of George’s 
adjuration he could not keep it to himself. As a rule 
he avoided a téte-a-téte with my lady much as he would 
have shunned a snow-bath in January. But this was so 
great a joke that for once he broke through a reserve 
that was born three parts of shame, and one part of 
a reluctance to leave the primrose paths in which his 
feet were entangled. He burst into her sitting-room 
and blurted out with great enjoyment the story of George’s 
backsliding. 

My lady was transfixed. For a moment she fad en- 
tertained a quivering and most unwelcome suspicion 
that she was herself at the bottom of the trouble. Of 
this the news relieved her. But it wounded her in her 
affection for George and grieved her on his account; and 
alas, it lowered him in her eyes. Were no men to be 
trusted, then—were they all alike? So frigidly did she | 
listen that my lord, chafing at her prudery, was glad to 
beat a quick retreat. He went, still mumbling his joke 
with apparent enjoyment, but—confound it!—how dif- 
ferent she used to be, he thought, how gay, how responsive. 
And for a brief moment, as he looked back, the primrose 
paths lost their charm. 

In Lady Ellingham’s case the first result of this con- 
fidence was that she avoided her governess. She could not 
believe, knowing as she did the truth about the Girardot 
matter, that the girl was a party to this, or was truly 
to blame. But she was perplexed and suspicious. She 
had been prepared to thank Rachel frankly and warmly, 
for her action of the morning, unfortunate as it had turned 
out. But with this on her mind she refrained, and Rachel 


210 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


drew her own conclusions and was unhappy, taking silence 
for condemnation, and in her solitude dwelling on and ex- 
aggerating the mistake that she had made. She fancied 
that she read reproach in Priscilla’s eyes. 

Ann, it is true, chose to regard her in the light of a 
heroine, and hung upon her a good deal. But as Ann’s 
admiration took the form of questions, equally plain-spoken 
and embarrassing, it worried her more than it cheered 
her. In her life apart she became in these days a little 
of a republican, thinking bitterly of the divisions of rank 
and the cold manners of the great. 

And then one morning a wonderful thing happened. 
Lady Ellingham appeared in the schoolroom at noon, and, 
without any greeting, “Miss South,” she said, her tone 
constrained, “Captain Dunstan has been moved into my 
sitting-room to-day. He is well enough to sit up, and 
he wishes to see you. Perhaps you will come down with me 
now ?” 

Feeling that the world was nearing its end, Rachel 
murmured something—that she was glad that he was 
better—of course she would do anything 

“Very well,” my lady said curtly. “Then will you fol- 
low me.” 

Still wondering much, Rachel did so, and a minute 
later found herself face to face with a Captain Dunstan 
who, in his dressing-gown and slippers and with the tan 
gone from his face, looked strangely unlike himself. He 
bobbed up from his easy chair and bobbed down again. 
“Thank you, Kitty,” he said. “Sit there, Miss South. I 
got my lady to fetch you just to—to tell you 
what I thought of you, d’you see? Well d’you know, 
you made a precious mess of that business, young lady? 
More haste, less speed, eh?” He smiled grimly. “You 
will know better another time, and not sheer in where 
you are not wanted, I fancy.” 

“T am very sorry,’ she murmured meekly. Lady EI- 





THE RETURN OF A SASH 211 


lingham’s eyes, pitilessly fixed upon her, confused her. 
“But indeed I did my best.” 

“I believe you,” he replied with a chuckle. “I am told 
that you ran like a hare, kicking up behind. Onions says 
a hare’d be nothing to it!” 

“T hadn’t time to think,” Rachel pleaded, with a hot 
face. | 

“And so were just in time to play the devil with us, 
eh? And after all,’ he continued, with a queer searching 
Jock at her, “got no thanks, I hear?” 

“T didn’t want any!” she answered with a spirt of re- 
sentment. Those cold eyes of Lady Ellingham’s—she 
would not have minded so much if they had not been on 
her all the time. And to what was this tending? Why 
had she been sent for? To be scolded? 

Apparently not, or not that only, for, “Well, you de- 
served them,” he said, his eyes smiling. “You ought to 
have had your name read in general orders for carrying 
out instructions. And so I have told Kitty. If any one 
was to blame she was. D’you understand, Miss South? 
You acted like a—like a 4 

“Midshipman!” my lady suggested in an enigmatic 
tone. 

“Well, a devilish good one! Yes, about that.” 

Rachel, blushing with surprise, murmured something 
incoherent—she was sorry that she had acted in haste— 
was sorry that he had been hurt. 

“Can't play at bowls without rubbers!” he rejoined. 
“But see here, young lady—where is it, my dear? Give 
it her.” 

Lady Ellingham, always with the same air of acting 
against her will, took a sash from a table and handed it 
to Rachel. 

“But this isn’t mine,” the girl stammered. “I think 
there has been—indeed this is much finer stuff.” 

“Yours? Gad, ma’am, it isn’t yours! Yours was 





212 QUEEN'S "POLLY 


spoiled—finished! Finished for good and all. You should 
have thought of that! Didn’t you?” 

“Of course I didn’t!” she protested, speaking more freely 
than she had spoken before. 

“I believe you!” he retorted. “You wouldn’t! But 
that’s yours now. And shake hands, young lady. We've 
been on the field together and ie 

“George,” my lady struck in rather tartly, “you’ve 
talked enough for this morning. Take your sash, Miss 
South, and run away now.” 

“You’re a devilish plucky girl!” the Captain said, sink- 
ing back in his chair. “But I knew that before.” 

“Thank you very much,” Rachel answered. She was 
moved almost to tears. 

“The boot is on the other foot!” he cried. 

The girl escaped then and ran lightly up the stairs, 
smoothing the soft texture of the scarf with her hand. 
Her republican notions had melted into thin air. Her 
heart was full, she was overflowing, simple little soul, with 
gratitude. 

Since her last parting with Girardot her thoughts of him 
were wholly changed. She had seen him as he was, 
plainly and almost openly seeking her ruin, and she shud- 
dered as she pictured him. But of the lover—of the lover 
of the former time—she still, and in spite of herself, had 
long thoughts. She still at times wrestled with the memo- 
ries of a past happiness. His presence—not as he was, but 
as she had imagined him—still haunted her pillow, the 
sweetness of his voice still melted her, his laughing eyes 
still at moments drew the heart from her, she still with 
shame thrilled at the remembered touch of his hand. 

But the charm and the ache were growing a little and 
a little less with every day, as other thoughts and other 
cares dragged at her. And to-day, in particular, if her 
heart still throbbed and smarted, it was more dully. She 
thought of him less on this evening than on any evening 
before, and she slept at night without dreaming of him. 





CHAPTER XXIII 
AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS 


THE departure of Ould was not felt by the party. No 
one loved the man, and, though the wit that is spiced 
with ill-nature has its use in preserving Society from in- 
sipidity, some one must smart for the general good. But 
Captain Dunstan’s confinement to a sick room was felt. 
His downright opinions and his bluntness provided 
variety. If he was not witty he provoked wit in others, 
and his return to the dining-table, which was delayed by 
a three days’ visit that the others paid to a neighbouring 
house, was an occasion of some festivity. The servants 
wore their brightest faces, the two ladies an additional 
jewel or two, wine from his favourite bin was decanted 
under the chaplain’s own eye, and Lord Robert, no longer 
in awe of Ould’s caustic tongue, prepared to enjoy him- 
self. 

During dinner the Hunt Ball and the Manydown Assem- 
bly, at which the party had been present, were reviewed 
in all lights. Miss Froyle was quizzed on her conquest 
of a rustic squire, and the question whether my lord should 
haye worn his Yeomanry uniform or the Hunt coat was 
redebated. The talk grew more nimble, as the wine passed 
round, the parson’s face began to shine, and, when the 
King’s health had been drunk with all the honours, Bobbie 
saw his chance and gave a toast. 

“Bumpers all,” he cried, “and a forfeit for the ladies 
if they pass it. It’s a most discreet toast. It commits 
no one, it probes no secrets, it removes no screen! It 

213 


214 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


is reticent as Mrs. Fitzherbert, mysterious as Udolpho, 
and as dark as the Monk.” 

“But more decent, I hope!” the chaplain muttered. 

““As decent as you like! The ladies may drink it with- 
out a blush, and my reverend friend without his cheeks 
becoming a shade more rubicund.” 

“Well, what is it?” my lord inquired. “To it, Bobbie! 
Hie in.” } 

“What is it?” Bobbie repeated, raising his glass. “I 
know no more than you do! I know no more than you 
do, but I give you The Unknown Cause!” 

“The Unknown Cause?” my lady repeated, puzzled. 

“To be sure, The Unknown Cause! But as George 
knows it, he can drink the toast or not, as he chooses. 
The Unknown Cause, ladies and gentlemen, and no heel- 
taps!” 

Lady Ellingham saw too late what was intended, and she 
reddened with annoyance. Miss Froyle stiffened—she best 
knew why—my lord laughed, much tickled, while the 
Captain grunted “Oh, confound you, Bobbie!” and Sir 
Austin murmured “To be sure! To be sure!” and waited 
for light. 

But the ladies’ disapproval was pronounced, and it so 
checked the merriment that the chaplain was thinking how 
he might best bring off Lord Robert with credit—such little 
services were a part of his office—when Sir Austin, whose 
brain always lagged behind, said the very thing that he 
should not have said. 

“By Jove!” he suggested blandly. “Ought we not, with 
her ladyship’s permission of course”’—this with an old- 
fashioned bow in her direction—“to have the little 
governess down? On such an occasion, eh?” 

My lord choked in his glass. “Why, Froyle, you are a 
wizard!” he said. “You put one and one together as if 
you were Cocker himself! Well,’ and his eyes twinkled 
with mischief, “you had better ask Kitty.” 

But my lady frowned. “I think,” she said frigidly, 


AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS 215 


“that Miss South has done enough mischief already. She 
would be as little in place here as she was on that 
unfortunate morning.” 

“She meant well,” growled the Captain. But he looked 
at old Froyle as if he could have strangled him. | 

However, that brought all of them on him. “Not a 
doubt of it!” my lord said slyly. “She meant well!” 

“Not a doubt in the world!” Bobbie assented grinning. 

“Rixae pars magna fuit,’ smiled the chaplain. 

“Angels rush in where Bobbie stands aloof!” my lord 
chimed in, his eyes dancing. 

“Oh, confound you all!’ George retorted, very red in 
the face. “Confound you, leave the thing alone! We’ve 
had enough of it.” 

“Quite enough!” said my lady. She looked at Charlotte, 
who silently but heartily agreed, and the two rose to- 
gether. The men had to drop their joke and rise also. 
Bobbie moved to the door to open it, but was anticipated 
by tha unexpected entrance of Bowles. “If you please, 
my lady,’ he said, “Miss South wishes to see you for a 
minute.” 

“Talk of the devil!” the chaplain exclaimed, and even 
uady Ellingham was startled. She lost her composed 
air. Coming on the top of what had just passed the 
application was untimely. “Why?” she asked coldly. 
“What is it? Miss South should know that this is not 
an hour at which I see her.” 

“T beg your ladyship’s pardon,” the butler said, “but 
an express letter has come for her. I understand that 
her mother is ill and Miss South wishes to go at once. 
The chaise that brought the letter was ordered to wait 
for her that she may catch the night coach at Salis- 
bury.” 

“Indeed?” my lady said. She spoke in an altered tone. 
“Tndeed! JI am sorry. Very well. In my room.” 

She went out, following Charlotte Froyle, and the men, 
with various ejaculations of sympathy, settled down to 


216 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


their wine. “Odd!” said one. “Devilish odd!” agreed 
another. ‘She'll have a confoundedly cold journey, poor 
girl!’’ said a third, as he set down his glass. “Where does 
she come from?” 

“Exeter way, somewhere,” my lord explained. “Aunt 
Elisabeth found her.” Then, feeling that the girl was 
no longer a fit subject for jesting, he diverted the talk, 
and within a minute she was to all appearance forgotten. 
A match between one of the earl’s horses and a neighbour’s 
four-year-old was discussed and bets were made. 

But an hour or so later the girl’s case came to the 
surface in an unforeseen fashion. The men, pretty sober 
on the whole, had been some minutes in the drawing-room 
when Captain Dunstan, who had lingered behind, entered. 
with a hasty step. He approached his sister-in-law. 
“Did you see the letter?” he asked, speaking with more 
than his usual abruptness. 

My lady looked up, at a loss for a moment to understand 
what he meant. “What letter?” she asked. “Oh! Miss 
South’s, do you mean? Yes, I saw it.” 

The letter was, indeed, lying on the table beside her, 
for the girl in her haste and distress had left it behind, 
and Lady Ellingham had brought it into the room to 
show it to Charlotte. Miss Froyle’s eyes, as my lady spoke, 
wandered bleakly to it, and, though she did not speak, 
the Captain followed her glance, saw the letter, and took 
it up. He read it without ceremony. “It says the chaise 
is to wait for her?” He spoke roughly, as if he blamed 
some one. 

“Well, George ?” 

“That she may catch the night coach at Salisbury? 
For Exeter ?” 

“Yes. What of it?” 

“Well, this. There is no night coach from Salisbury 
for Exeter. It runs only in summer.” 

“Eh?” my lord exclaimed. “What is that!” 


AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS 217 


“There is no night coach from Salisbury to Exeter!” 
George insisted, striking the letter with his hand. I’ve 
looked in Paterson.” 

“That’s odd,” Lady Ellingham said. But having said it 
she was content to shrug her shoulders. It was silly 
of George to make such a fuss about the girl! But the 
men’s attention was caught, and they looked inquiringly 
at him. 

“What does it mean?” the Captain demanded. “The 
letter is written by the doctor. Says her mother has 
had a cere-cerebral attack, whatever that may be, and that 
if the girl wishes to see her alive she must return in 
the chaise and catech—I’ll tell you what! This letter is 
a d—d fraud! I don’t believe a word of it! There’s no 
night coach, and you—you ought not to have let the 
girl go, Kitty!” 

The accusation fell sharp among them. He spoke 
harshly, making no attempt to hide his feelings, and 
Charlotte reddened with vexation. My lord went out with- 
out a word, evidently to consult Paterson for himself. 
My lady let her work fall into her lap. “Nonsense, 
George,” she said quietly. “You are romancing.” 

“But there is no night coach!” 

“The writer may have made a mistake.” 

“But every one has a Paterson!” Paterson’s Road 
Book was, be it said, the Bradshaw of that day. “And 
that’s not all. There’s the indorsement.” He turned the 
paper over. “ “To be forwarded from Salisbury by post- 
chaise, which will await orders at the Rt. Hon. the Earl 
of Ellingham’s, all expenses paid. Urgent, very urgent.” 
Why all this arrangement? Did the man suppose that 
Fred had no horses ?” 

“But it seems a wise arrangement,” my lady contended. 
“See how quickly Miss South got off.” 

“To catch a night coach that doesn’t run ?” 

My lord came in. “No, there is no coach,” he said. 


218 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Tt certainly looks fishy. What do you fellows make of 
ie 

“A mistake,” my lady said equably. “George is excit- 
ing himself about nothing.” 

“T’m hanged if I am!” George exploded, his angry eyes 
challenging opposition. “Post through?” he retorted, in 
reply to a suggestion. “Ten to one she hasn’t the money!” 

Lord Robert had an idea and he launched it. “VIL 
tell you what it is,’ he said. “If it is as you think, 
T’ll wager there’s a man at the bottom of it! Eh? What 
do you think? Don’t you think so?” 

The Captain turned on him, but before he could annihil- 
late him, “And perhaps,” the chaplain said, “the young 
lady was not quite in the dark either.” 

George whirled about, but, “Gad, you think she was 
fly??? said my lord. 

“A put-up thing, I expect!” agreed the chaplain, less 
discreet than usual. “At any rate,” he hedged hurriedly 
as the Captain’s baleful gaze again shifted to him, “it 
looks like it to me.” 

George, tormented on all sides, opened his mouth, but 
before he could find words strong enough, “T'o be sure, 
to be sure!” said Sir Austin, catching the idea at last. “T 
see. ‘The young lady knew what she was going to?” 

“You've got it, Sir Austin,” said Bobbie, grinning. 

George found voice. “Well, I’m d—d!” he cried. “I 
tell you what it is! You are all as bad one as the other! 
You’re a set of longshore chatterers—worse, begad, than 
a lot of prating scandal-mongering bumboatwomen! I’ve 
not the patience to listen to you! Can’t you see? Haven't 
you eyes? You’ve seen the girl. Isn’t it a hundred times 
more likely that some one—ay, some one of your kidney, 
confound you!—has laid a false course for her and ie 

“And set a trap for her?” broke in my lord. “Well, 
I don’t know, George. Women are queer things, my lad.” 

“The women you know are!” George snarled, and, 





AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS 219 


muttering something very unfit for the ladies’ ears, he 
strode out of the room, slamming the white and gold door 
behind him with a violence that set the pendants on the 
chandeliers jangling. 

Lord Robert grinned, while my lord, struck thus treach- 
erously under the ribs, looked foolish. The other men 
exchanged glances and shrugged their shoulders. “By 
Jove!” said Bobbie, lowering his voice, “I am afraid that 
George is a case. I’m afraid he is.” He shook his head 
sapiently. “Comes of going to sea,” he added. 

*?Pon honour,” Sir Austin ventured, “it looks to me 
very much as if—I really begin to think that George 4 
and then my lord trod on his toe. 

The Countess rose with an impassive face. “It is ten 
o’clock,” she said. “Shall we go, Charlotte?” 

“T think it is time,” Charlotte assented, in a tone that 
expressed more than her words. The two rose and re- 
tired, and the men, left to themselves, had their say about 
it, and sniggered a little at George’s expense. But a few 
minutes later, as they crossed the hall on their way to the 
billiard-room, my lady descended upon them, her feelings 
for once written on her face. 

“Fred!” she exclaimed, addressing him with less of form 
than she had used with him for a twelvemonth, “George 
is gone!” 

My lord stood. The rest paused to listen. “Gone?” 
he repeated. “Gone where?’ 

“Gone after her! And he’s not fit.” 

“The devil he has! How’s he gone?” 

“He’s taken Medea.” 

“Taken Medea!” my lord exclaimed, and now he was 
really roused. “Taken Medea, and the ground as hard as 
iron! If he lames that mare—by gad, but I can’t believe 
he’d do such a mad thing! Confound him! Are you sure, 
Kitty ?” 

“They say so. They say that he went straight to the 





220 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


stables, had her saddled and rode off. Bowles ran after 
him to try to stop him, but was only in time to see him 
pass the gate.” 

“Confound the little baggage!” my lord cried, honestly 
angry for once. “She'll be the laming of that mare, and 
I’ve backed her for the Ringwood Cup.” 

“T wish I could think,” said my lady darkly, “that she 
will do no more harm than that!” 


CHAPTER XXIV, 
MEDEA TO THE RESCUE 


Iv was true. George had taken Medea, though probably 
no one else in the house, not even my lord, could have 
drawn the steeple-chaser from her stall for such a purpose. 
But the Captain’s savage eyes had wrought the miracle, 
though not without trouble, nor until he had fretted away 
five intolerable minutes, stamping to and fro in the black- 
ness under the great chestnut tree that stood in the middle 
of the stable-court; the tree that of sunny noons had 
sheltered generations of stable brats at play—ainfants 
chuckling on their backs as they stared up at the sun- 
flecked foliage or boys stringing cobs—but at night was a 
Cacus cave sheltering for the same children unknown hor- 
rors. 

In the end, and reluctantly, Tom had put an end to the 
Captain’s suspense. He had led out the mare, raising 
his lanthorn, so as to throw its light on the Captain’s 
face, and assure himself that he was sober. For Tom was 
quaking in his shoes at the thought of Mr. Coker, the stud- 
groom, and what that great man would have to say about it 
in the morning. 

“You know she’s entered for the cup, Mr. George,” he 
said, as Medea flung up her head and hung back in the 
doorway, her eyes glistening in the light of the lanthorn. 

“D—n the cup!” the Captain said, gathering up the 
reins and lifting himself to the saddle. 

“Well, for God’s sake have a care, sir! The ground is 
hard, and I dunno what Mr. Coker will say! 


221 


222 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Mr. George’s answer was lost in the clatter of the mare’s 
hoofs as she sidled over the gravel. Tom walked beside 
her, throwing the light before her, and would fain have 
pressed home his warning. But before he had screwed up 
his courage to say more, the mare broke away into the 
night, plunging and shying. The light glinted a last time 
on her sleek quarters, the man heard the Captain steady 
her to a sharp trot, he lowered his lanthorn. “Grant she 
come to no harm!” he said. “But I shall catch it sweetly 
for this! Confound him, as if no other nag would serve 
his turn!” And most devoutly Tom wished as he went 
back to the stable that he had not been on duty. 

Meanwhile the Captain turned his mount on to the turf 
and gave her her head. He had a good seat for a sailor, 
and it was well that he had, for Medea was fresh, the cold 
air tickled her, and this unwonted frisk among the shadows 
of the night was a treat of which she was bound to make 
the most. The lines of trees that flanked the avenue, 
though she knew perfectly well what they were, gave her 
noble pretexts for shying, and a dozen times she broke 
away with a joyous flout of her heels and tore through the 
cold delicious air with a spirit that tried the Captain’s 
strength to the uttermost. Once a rabbit, scurrying under 
her nose, really upset her ladyship’s nerves, and her rider 
only saved himself with a hand in her mane. But he 
steadied her again with voice and rein, rode presently clear 
of the forest land and cantered across the far-stretching' 
open moor at a steadier pace. 

By and by he would have to take to the road, and he 
knew that it was hard, and he thought of Fred and the 
cup. But he crushed down the qualm—what mattered a 
horse, even Medea, beside that which he believed was at 
stake. He swore savagely under his breath, took a tighter 
hold of her and pressed her on. His full strength had not 
come back to him, and he was sweating as if he had ridden 
a race. 

He had reckoned that the chaise had an hour’s start of 


MEDEA TO THE RESCUE 223 


him, and he believed that he could overtake it—if that were 
all. But that was not all. The thing that most troubled 
him, that harassed and tormented him, and more than once 
almost led him to draw rein, was doubt. 

What if, after all, he were a fool and the whole thing a 
mare’s nest? The letter might be genuine, the mention 
of the night coach a mere error, and all that he had raised. 
on them a structure of overheated fancy—a house of cards! 
If that were so he had started out on as silly a goose-chase 
as any man, crazed by his imagination, had undertaken! 
And he would never hear the end of it. 

Or worse still—if those confounded cynics with their 
poisonous tongues were right? If there was a plot and 
she was a party to it, the purpose of it that she might 
escape and join her lover! He knew all about Girardot; 
my lady had told him, had hastened to tell him. And the 
doubt would force itself on his mind, though he swore 
again and again that he knew the girl, and that she was 
not one to sail under false colours, that her face and her 
eyes gave the lie to it! He had witnessed her courage in 
the wood, he had been touched by her dignity when that 
vixen of an Ann-had struck her, he had seen her, instead: 
of swooning, take the sash from her own waist, he had 
watched her a dozen times, when his eyes and his mind 
were apparently elsewhere. And he would not believe that 
she was of that kind. That she could plot and he for so 
vile a purpose. 

And yet—if she were in love? There was the crux. 
Always the thought came back to him—what would not a 
girl do for her lover? And that rascal of a tutor was so 
wily, so good-looking, so smooth! Was there anywhere a 
man more likely to twist a girl round his fingers? Hven a 
good girl with eyes like still pools, and lips that trembled 
at a harsh word? : 

The Captain groaned, eased the mare up the slight rise 
by Picket Post and felt the breeze strike more freshly on 
his brow. He drew rein on the farther slope and listened. 


224 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Darkness flowed over the depths below him as softly and 
silently as the limpid Avon that, unseen, swayed the long 
weeds in the bottom of the valley. An owl hooted in 
Ridley Copse on his right, but its note was so much a part 
of the night that it did but deepen the stillness. Beyond 
the valley a long pale line of sky marked the horizon, and 
some way beneath it a gleam of light betrayed the houses 
of Ringwood. But no sound of hoofs or skidded wheels 
rose from the road below him, and with a sigh and at a 
more cautious pace, with something of indecision in his 
movements, he began the descent. 

A quarter of an hour later he trotted into the sleeping 
village, saw a stream of light pouring cheerfully from the 
door of the White Hart, and he pulled up. The sound of 
a horse at that late hour drew the landlord to the door, 
and “Has a chaise gone by, Jervis?” the Captain asked, 
throwing as much indifference into his tone as he could 
manage. 

“Lord, sir,” the landlord cried, recognising him, and he 
came out to his stirrup. “Is it you, Captain? Who'd ha’ 
thought of seeing your honour as late as this? And you 
in bed, I thought? A chaise? Ay, to be sure, sir, twenty 
minutes ago. They stopped to water.” 

“Who was in it?” 

“On’y a young lady, sir. From the Folly, I understood 
—for Salisbury.” 

“Oh!” The Captain’s voice was flat. “Very good.” 
He turned Medea’s head for home. “Forgot something, 
that’s all. Too late now. Thought I might come up with 
her here. Good night, Jervis.” 

Jervis called after him, inquiring if he would not take 
something. But the Captain only waved his hunting-crop 
in answer. He was already retracing his steps along the 
street. He kept the mare at a foot pace for a time, but as 
soon as he was clear of the houses he gave her her head and 
trotted smartly on, sitting low in his saddle. A mare’s 
nest? Yes, it looked like it, since-no one had joined her. 


MEDEA TO THE RESCUE 225 


And how he would be roasted for rushing a hunter through 
the night, and all for nothing! The sooner he got the 
mare home and safe home the better. 

But when he came, a third of the way up the hill, to the 
smithy at the cross-roads, he halted. Why had they stayed 
to water at Ringwood? Ringwood was hardly seven miles 
from Queen’s Folly, and there could be no need to stop— 
for man or beast. Was it to leave evidence, if they were 
followed, that the girl was alone and that all was above- 
board? The Captain swore, and sat for a moment 
undecided. Then impulsively he turned the mare’s head 
into the forest road on his left, struck her smartly with the 
crop to enforce his will upon her, and sent her along by 
the by-ways that on that side of the valley skirted the 
lower slopes of the Forest towards Fordingbridge. They 
would serve his purpose as well as the main road, and be 
shorter and softer. He had lost twenty minutes of 
precious time, and had himself to thank for it. 

The by-road ran under trees and was dark and rough, 
but it was soft, and wherever he could safely do so he 
cantered the mare. He passed through North Poulner, by 
Moyles Court, lying lonely and dark under its weight of 
tragedy, through South Gorley, rousing all the dogs in the 
hamlet, he forded the Ickley brook, and at North Gorley 
turned to his left and got upon the main road. There he 
took to the turf at the side and galloped, riding the harder 
for the doubts that plagued him and the indecision that 
weakened him. He was in a fever to settle the question; 
and if he had not turned back once and repented of it, he 
would have whirled about a dozen times, as a dozen times 
he called himself every kind of name for starting on such 
a hare-brained chase. 

But to go back now while there remained the slightest 
uncertainty seemed worse than to persevere. And at 
length he saw a light ahead of him, in some sick-room per- 
haps, and quickly he clattered over the long causeway into 
Fordingbridge, the sliding water glinting darkly below 


226 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


him. He halted before the Greyhound, wedged in on his 
right between bridge and river. 

And here again he was in luck. The house was awake, 
an ostler came out at once in answer to his hail. Again he 
inquired if a chaise had passed—a chaise for Salisbury. 

The man threw the light of his lanthorn on horse and 
rider. “Ay, to be sure,” he said. “They be gone no more 
than half an hour.” 

“They changed horses here ?” 

“Ay, they did. Anything wrong, mister?” 'The man’s 
curiosity was aroused. He fancied that he knew the 
gentleman, but he could not put a name to him. The 
horse, however, was beyond denial: it was such a horse as 
he had not seen for a twelvemonth. 

“One or two travellers?” the Captain asked. 

“One or two—— ?” 

“Were there one or two inside?” 

“Two, to be sure. A gentleman and a lady.” Again, 
“Anything wrong, mister ?” 

A long pause. “Did they get out?” 

“Narra one.” 

“You are sure they were two?” 

“Well, I see ’em,” the man answered drily. “They 
looked to be two. And in a mortal hurry to get on. What 
about *em, mister?’ He raised his lanthorn for a clearer 
view. 

The Captain turned his back and slid stiffly to the 
ground. “Nothing,” he said. “Bring half a bucket of 
oatmeal and water, luke. And be sharp about it.” 

The sight of half a crown quickened the man’s move- 
ments, and he was back in two minutes with the bucket. 
“That’s a gay fine mare,” he said, as he held the pail on his 
knee while Medea blew delicately on it, in doubt of its 
cleanliness. ‘“‘You’ve ridden her too!” 

The Captain tightened a girth. “Ay,” he said, his head 
under the saddle-flap. “The lady left no message here?” 

“Narra a word! Kep’ out of sight, if you ask me.” 


MEDEA TO THE RESCUE 227 


“T meant to meet them here,” the Captain explained, as 
he turned to watch Medea quenching her thirst in her 
dainty fashion. “And I’m too late.” 

“Well, you’ve made haste too.” 

The Captain did not answer. He swung himself up, 
handed over the coin, and turned for home. “Good- 
night.” 

He paced slowly away into the darkness, and passed 
again over the long causeway where the wind from the 
marshes nipped him and chilled his blood. 

But the chill without was nothing to the chill within; 
the rushy flat through which the water flowed and 
whispered beneath him was not half so cold and dead as 
the spirit within him. So, after all, the candid eyes and 
the soft tremulous lips had been lies, the woman’s common 
wiles that took in foolish men! And she had—she had 
been that kind of girl! Her looks that had seemed so 
open, her artless manners, her gentle dignity, all had been 
but so many false lights set up to lead men on to shoals 
and rocks and shipwreck. And when she had been most 
open, then she had been most cunning, laughing in secret, 
marking with shrewd derisive eyes the stupid seaman as 
he tacked to and fro, masking his clumsy course. 

She had affected solitude and forced a tear to her eye the 
while she plotted how she might most quickly join her 
lover! She was that kind of girl. 

And with it all, with all her address, a fool! The 
rider’s chin sank lower on his breast. For he might not 
know women—here indeed was the proof, the damning 
proof that he did not. Kitty, even Kitty might deceive, 
might be every day deceiving him. But he did know 
men, and Girardot with his handsome face, his laughing 
eyes, his glib tongue was an open book to him. Quickly, 
quickly would he tire of his easy conquest, and then what 
would be her fate? Something between a groan and a 
curse escaped from the Captain’s lips and he struck Medea 
—Medea who had never offended him. 


CHAPTER XXYV, 
Two IN A POSTCHAISE 


RacHEL sank dry-eyed into the corner of the chaise. The 
lofty lighted doorway of Queen’s Folly and the figures 
about it vanished, the rattle of the wheels over the fore- 
court changed to a dull rumble, the shadowy lines of trees 
flitted past. But the girl’s one, her only thought was that 
she was on her way at last—though indeed little time had 
been lost—that the grim race with death had begun. 

She counted the hours that lay before her; she measured 
the suspense. And the immediate past, with its doubts 
and fears, its passion and fever fell away from her like a 
cloak put off. The persons among whom her life had 
lately moved, whose esteem or dislike, praise or blame had 
been all in all—ay, and among them even he who had 
caught her heart, toyed with it, and wrung it—faded into 
dimness, became shadows without import, mattering 
nothing. Only one thing mattered. The tender, lined 
face that had looked its last on her from the wooden porch 
of that humble cottage by the sea, the veined hands 
roughened in her service, the mother voice—these were 
all that concerned her now, were all her world. And she 
was going to lose them. Oh, that she had never left them! 
That she had known how to value them, how to cherish 
them, and with every day and hour to lay by some dear 
remembrance of the love that could never be replaced! 
Oh, the time that she had wasted! 

Tearless, staring into the darkness, she clasped hand in 
hand, drawing at intervals deep and painful sighs, as 
memory, ruthless and cruel, stabbed her, recalled impatient 

228 


L1WOIN A POSTCHAISE 229 


words, ungracious looks, a selfish act, the wilful choice of 
her own pleasure. Little things, lightly weighed and as 
quickly done with. But the sting of them rankled now, 
now when there might be no place for repentance, no room 
to make amends, no impassioned words whereby to prove 
her love, her boundless gratitude! Now, when the heart, 
so tender and so forgiving, might already be cold, and the 
work-worn hand lie nerveless! 

She could only pray, voiceless and wordless, pray that 
she might be in time! She could only send her heart— 
and indeed it seemed as if she could send her heart !— 
before her. 

She was not as yet impatient. The hour for impatience 
was not yet come. The end of the journey lay so far away. 
When it approached, then indeed she did not know how 
she would bear the waiting, or live through the last hour 
of suspense. At present she had but to endure. 

A little white-faced girl, lost in the darkness of the 
chaise that itself, with its feeble lights, was but a moving 
atom in the vast of night. Yet within her a world of 
emotion, of thought, of purpose, ceaselessly revolving. 

Presently she felt the carriage stop, saw lights and 
figures through the dim glass, perceived that they were 
watering the horses. Again the chaise jolted on, the lights 
slid back, once more the horses were pounding along the 
dark road. On her right a gloomy line of woods rose to a 
sky but a shade lighter; and, had she been in her everyday 
mood, her lonely position must have presented visions of 
peril to her mind. She would have seen in every clump 
of trees a highwayman, and trembled where the night was 
deepest. But she had passed beyond those fears. 

And this was fortunate, for ten minutes later, as she 
sat patient in her corner, the unexpected happened. She 
heard a cry—twice repeated. The carriage came slowly 
and, it seemed, unwillingly to a stand. She caught a 
word or two. Then the door beside her was plucked open, 
a dark form for an instant filled the gap, sprang in. The 


230 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


door closed, the chaise bounded forward, and, trembling 
with indignation, she uttered a cry of protest, and shrank 
into her corner. Her first thought was that the postboy 
had taken up a fare—as they did at times where they 
dared to take a liberty. But at night and when she was 
alone! 

Before she could speak, “Do not be alarmed,” said a 
voice that went through her like a sword thrust—alas! 
a too well-known voice. “I can explain, indeed I can 
explain. I can make allclear. I heard at Salisbury 4c 

She was dumb with amazement—with amazement so 
great that for a time it left room for no other feeling. 

“T heard at Salisbury—at Salisbury,” he stammered, 
making no effort to combat the nervousness that moved 
him. “I was at the White Hart, and I heard that a chaise 
was starting for you—that it was to bring you back. I 
pictured you alone, in sorrow, grieving, and I could not 
bear Oh, Rachel,” he pleaded with passion, “you may 
think it impertinent, uncalled for, wrong if you will, you 
may think what you must! But I could not bear that you 
should travel so—alone! I came to meet you—only, 
believe me, to see you safe to the coach! Only to be sure 
that you were not frightened, not molested, were not « 

She cut him short. She had only one thought, to re- 
main mistress of herself; and, thank God, that was easy. 
“It was unnecessary,” she said, her voice cold as ice. 
“Quite unnecessary, Mr. Girardot.” 

“But it was natural! Say that it was natural,” he 
urged. “I could not help it. You must see that it was 
natural—and forgive me.” 

She was trembling with indignation, but, thank God, 
with no other feeling. 'That—all that was dead in her! 
She had not been sure of it until now—now when she 
heard his voice, and the only emotion that it awoke in 
her was anger at his untimely, his cruel intrusion. “You 
might have met me at Salisbury,” she said. 

“‘And been”—he threw all the anxiety he could into his 











TWO IN A POSTCHAISE 231 


deep voice—“been hours in agony lest something should 
happen to you!” 

“That is nonsense!” she replied in the coldest of tones. 
“Nothing was likely to happen to me.” 

“T could not know that. How could I know that? 
And I could not bear the suspense, or—or the thought 
that you were in trouble and that, though I might never 
see you again, I might be of use to you! Might leave 
some kindher remembrance behind me—go from you with 
at least one word of forgiveness! It was that—and surely, 
surely it was natural that I should come if I had not a 
heart of stone!” 

His voice shook with the force of his pleading. But 
Rachel was beyond the power of that voice. She only 
grew harder and colder with every word he said, with 
every moment that passed. She felt—and it was a proof 
of her inexperience—no fear. She did not suspect that 
he had another motive for intruding on her than that 
which he declared, or a purpose beyond that which he 
avowed. But she felt that his presence was an outrage, 
and that the manner in which they had parted should 
alone have forbidden the step that he had taken. He had 
not thought of her, nor of the harm that his company 
might do her, but only of his own gratification. And 
her voice was freezing when she spoke. “It was wrong,” 
she said. “I can protect myself, Mr. Girardot. I ask 
you to leave me.” 

“What?? he replied. “You would have me get out 
here? In the road, in the night? You cannot mean it?” 

She longed passionately to be free from him, but “Then 
at the next stage,” she said with firmness. “You should 
not be here. You should not have come.” 

“T meant well,” he said. 

But she was not moved. She did not answer. And 
he had at least, he reflected, made good his footing; he 
must not frighten her. He held himself as far from her 
as he could, and he was careful not to touch her. He had 


232 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


anticipated more alarm, more suspicion—and also more 
agitation. He had feared that she would discern the 
weak place in his tale and inquire how he came to know 
that she was in trouble, since the outside of the letter, 
even if he had seen it, could not inform him of that. But 
Rachel, engrossed in her grief, had forgotten that it was 
not known to all the world. 

Now if he could keep his seat beyond Fordingbridge, if 
he could lull her suspicions just a little longer—but he 
would not, he dared not anticipate or give his imagination 
rein. With his pulses beating furiously, with intoxicating 
pictures dancing before his eyes, he must still restrain 
himself, for to anticipate, to snatch at the fruit before it 
was ripe, would be fatal. She was so near that he could 
almost feel her breath upon his cheek! He had only to 
stretch out his hand to touch her, to take her, to cover her 
with kisses! But the time for that was not yet: he must 
crush down the temptation. He must think only of 
Fordingbridge. Once past that... 

It came, and came so quickly that he had little time for 
thought. A light or two glimmered before them, they 
were on the long bridge, they were passing over it with 
the sullen water lapping the piles below them and the river 
mists deepening the night. They stopped abruptly before 
the lighted doorway of the Greyhound, and the crisis was 
on him. If fraud failed he must fall back on force—were 
is possible. 

“Surely you will let me come on to Salisbury ?” he began. 
“If you wish. it I will leave you short of the city. But 
I cannot bear to leave you alone, here.” 

“No!” Rachel cried passionately. “No! Leave me 
here, sir, I beg. Get out, if you please! I insist on it.” 

“But why ?” 

“Mr. Girardot!” Her voice trembled with anger. “If 
you are a gentleman you will leave me when I ask you. 
It is not fitting, it is not right, sir, that you should thrust 
yourself upon me.” 


TWO IN A POSTCHAISE 233 


“She fears herself,” he thought, and he hugged himself. 
Aloud, “But indeed, indeed,” he pleaded, deprecating her 
anger even while he persisted, “it will do you no harm 
if I get out short of the city. Of course,” he continued, 
as she seized the handle of the door, and tried to turn it, 
“if you appeal to the stablemen, they will put me out. 
But—I am thinking of you, not of myself; is it worth 
while to have a scandal? When I have come so far to be 
of service, and my only desire is to see you in safety? 
What do you fear ?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Then why—” he retorted with a flash of humour—the 
handle was stiff and she had failed to turn it—“do any- 
thing so desperate? Why force me to walk ten miles?” 

She hesitated, and, to gain time, he rose. “Well,” he 
said reluctantly, “if you will have it so! But it is an 
ill return—an ill return for my—my anxiety.” He pre- 
tended to feel in the darkness for the handle, and, while 
she waited for him to open the door and descend, the chaise 
moved abruptly, swung onwards from the inn door, the 
lights passed behind them, they were off again. 

“Oh! she cried, in helpless resentment, “you should 
have got out! You should have got out! It is base, sir— 
base of you to force yourself on me!” Her voice trembled 
with indignation, for she felt that he had outwitted her. 

“Base?” he repeated softly. “Base? Oh, if you knew, 
Rachel !” 

But his words were lost in the rumble of the wheels and 
she did not catch them. And after all, it mattered little, 
very little! She was ashamed to think that her mind 
should have been diverted even for a second from the 
object of her journey—that she should have forgotten even 
for a moment her mother! Her thoughts reverted to the 
cottage, to what might be passing there! And, alas! what 
might not be passing there while she bandied words about 
trifles that mattered not? What sacred moments, what 
trials of fortitude, what scenes of distress? She thought 


234 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


of Ruth, called, child as she was and alone, to meet such 
awful issues, to catch her mother’s last words, to receive 
the last pressure of the loved hand. Ah, with what pas- 
sion, in what a sad embrace would they two meet, would 
they melt in one another’s arms! 

For a space—for how long Rachel never knew—she lost 
herself in such musings. She forgot the present, she for- 
got even her companion—or, if a thought of him intruded, 
she reproached herself. She was standing in the dear 
room with the latticed panes and the sloping floor and the 
faded dimity hangings—standing by a dying bed. 

_ Oh, why had she gone from her? Why had she left her 
mother and wasted those months that might have been 
spent by her side, spent in fond attendance on her, in 
loving care of her, in making atonement for past heedless- 
ness? 

She was brought back, and sharply, to the present. A 
horse stumbled and, recovering itself with a scramble, 
jolted her in her seat. She peered out. Trees, their shin- 
ing trunks sliding by in the lamplight, overhung the road, 
their branches swept the sides of the chaise. They were 
passing through a wood, ascending too, climbing steeply 
on a narrow road, a rougher road than she remembered. 
She tried, looking out of each window by turns, to probe 
the gloom, and her heart that had been so low beat a sud- 
den alarm. Doubts assailed her, and for the first time 
apprehension. She tried to recall the road from Fording- 
bridge—surely there should be low meadows on her right, 
water-meadows stretching far on either side of the river. 
And no wood! “Where are we?” she exclaimed, her 
words a challenge. 

Her quiescence had puzzled him, but it had been in 
his favour, and he had been glad to let her be. Now that 
the question which he knew must come sooner or later 
was put, he was prepared for it. “There is nothing to 
alarm you,” he answered smoothly, “and much to relieve 
you—to lighten your mind. If you will listen to me— 


TWO IN A POSTCHAISE 235 


if you will listen to me for a moment, I have good news. 
I have the best of news, dear Rachel—for dear you are to 
me, though you forbid the word. News that will relieve 
that tender heart and dry those tears, that will sf 

“Why are we off the road?” she cried. She was fright- 
ened now—frightened at last. There was that in his 
honeyed tone that admitted deceit, that betrayed an abyss, 
that fell into line with the dark woods, the narrow road, 
the labouring horses. 

“JT am going to tell you,” he said in the same deprecating 
tone. “Only—oh, Rachel, do not be angry, do not be 
angry with me. What I have done, what I have to con- 
fess, my own, my dearest, I have done out of love, over- 
mastering love that I could not—that no man could have 
resisted! And have no fear. You are as safe with me, 
day or night, here or elsewhere, as 

“No,” she cried, clapping her hands. “Why are we off 
the road? That is the question. Answer it, sir! Answer 
it! I am going to my mother, and she is dying! Do 
you understand? ‘There is not a minute to lose in folly, 
sir, if I would see her alive!” Her voice was hard as 
iron. 

“You will see her alive!” he assured her. “You will, 
you will, and many times, I trust. But say, say first,” he 
continued with passion, as he brought all his powers into 
play to move her, “say that you forgive me! That you 
forgive me for the trick that I have played you in the 
madness of my love! If I have deceived you—if I have 
for a moment wrung that tender breast “f 

“Mr. Girardot!” She spoke in a voice that he did not 
know. “If you do not tell me the truth at once I will 
break the window and appeal to the postboy! This is 
odious! This is intolerable!” 

“He would not heed you,’ he replied coolly—for all 
must come out now, the more quickly the better. “And 
it were a pity to wound that little hand. But, dear spit- 
fire, hear me, and, as I love, forgive. Your mother is 











236 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


not ill. She has not been ill.” Rachel uttered a halt- 
stifled cry. “She is as well as you are. I have deceived 
you—yes, I have deceived you. But if I have caused 
you pain, short-lived pain, think with pity—oh, Rachel, 
think,” he repeated with fire, “of one whose pain is lasting, 
who suffers and sees no cure but at your will, and who 
found no means of pleading with you save this! Oh, my 
dear, some mercy, some softness there must be in that 
woman’s breast !” 

But Rachel had ceased to listen. She had broken into 
a passion of weeping, deaf to his excuses, heedless of his 
presence. For the moment, in the immensity of her relief, 
one thing only appealed to her, one thing only was of 
import. Her mother lived! Her mother lived, and she 
would see her, would clasp the loved hand, hear again 
the accents of that voice. In the revulsion of her feelings 
and in her thankfulness she lost sight of her previous fear, 
forgot her position, recked nothing of his presence. And 
even when, as she grew calmer, she fell to earth again 
and awoke to his voice and the desperate pleading he 
continued to pour into her ears—when with a shock she 
recognised his treachery, it was a hard pitiless anger 
rather than alarm that at first possessed her. 

But he did not know that; and he had triumphed too 
often to despair. He had welcomed her tears, not under- 
standing their cause, for they bridged over the awkward 
moment, they won him time. And the more deeply 
she was moved, the more he hoped. In the troubled 
waters he looked to fish with success—the woman moved 
was the woman half-won. So, receiving no answer, no 
repudiation of his suit, he was deceived into thinking 
that she wavered. And he was careful not to touch her, 
not to alarm her, though the temptation to draw her to him, 
to crush the slender form in his arms, to seek her lips 
was almost more than he could withstand. But he did 
resist it: that and all would follow if he were patient. 
She sobbed, and he supposed that she listened. So had 


TWO IN A POSTCHAISE 237 


women sobbed and listened, and, sobbing and listening, 
had yielded. Presently she would find her voice, plead, 
protest, deny ; and then he would know how, by gentle force, 
to win consent. Or, if she still would not yield, he would 
point out her position, the night, his presence and what 
the world would say of it. He would prove to her that 
the Rubicon was passed already, her good name gone, 
all lost—save love! 

He had gone through it before, proved it, tried it. Yet 
would he omit no precaution that experience suggested. 
And after all, she was at his mercy. 

They had passed out of the wood before she grew calm; 
they were crossing a wild common, set sparsely with 
undergrowth that fringed the road. And still she did 
not speak—but she might be wavering. He could not 
distinguish her face, so dark was it, but he could picture 
it, and, as his confidence grew, so did the lure of her 
form—so near that he had but to put out his hand 
and she was his. It was a shock when at last she spoke, 
and her voice rang sharp and shrewish. 

“Stop, sir, and let me out! At once! At once!” she 
cried. 

Her firmness took him aback. It was not what 
he had expected. “But, my dearest, dearest Rachel,” 
he protested, “it is impossible! Even were you so 
hard, so heartless, if you have so little feeling or pity 
for me——” 

“Tf you do not let me out,” she said wildly, “I will 
throw myself out!” And she struck the glass of the 
window. “Do you hear, sir? If you are not utterly 
vile, you will suffer me to get out, or you will leave 
me |” 

“Alone?” His tone was mocking now. “In this waste 
to perish of cold? Never! Listen, dear heart, listen! 
You are safe with me a 

“T do not think so!” she retorted. “And you—do 
you not yet understand, sir, that I loathe you—loathe you 





238 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


were it for nothing else but the cruel, the heartless trick 
that you have played me! Let me out! Let me out, sir! 
Or I will throw myself out!” 

He heard her fumbling for the handle, and, though he 
did not believe that she would carry out her threat 
while the carriage was moving at speed, the excuse served 
him. “So you are stubborn, are you!” he replied, his 
anger roused. “Softly, softly! We are not at an end 
yet!” And he found and seized her hand and drew her 
forcibly towards him. She uttered a cry, and with her 
free hand she struck the glass furiously, shattering it. 

“Stop! Stop!” she screamed. “Help!” 

“Dear, dear little fool!” he said, and easily mastering 
her—for what could she do in that space?—he drew her 
to him. She struggled, and then, panting, desisted. 
“Frightened little heart,” he murmured. “Heart of my 
heart, what are you afraid of? See, I do not harm you. 
I do not hurt you. I do but prevent you harming your- 
self. Those little hands were never meant for that, 
but to be cherished, fondled, kissed, adored !” 

She gasped, helpless, despairing. But even in that des- 
perate strait she kept her wits, and his words suggested 
something. “Oh, the blood! My wrist!” she cried. “My 
wrist! Give me a handkerchief!” Terror rang in her 
voice. “For pity’s sake a handkerchief! I shall bleed 
to death!” 

Alarmed, he released her for a moment and felt for 
his handkerchief. ‘Now that comes,” he said reproach- 
fully, “of obstinacy. I told you that those little hands 
were never meant ea) a 

But, “Oh, a light!” she sobbed hysterically. “A light! 
It is bleeding—bleeding over me! [I shall die.” 

He folded the handkerchief, and the moment he gave 
to the task, which required the use of both his hands, 
was fatal. In the darkness she had found the handle and 
this time she succeeded in turning it. As he leaned 





TWO IN A POSTCHAISE 239 


towards her with the handkerchief, she hurled herself 
bodily against the door; it gave way, and she flung her- 
self recklessly from the carriage, the grasp that he made 
at her skirt missing her by inches. 

He swore and shouted. “Stop! Stop!” he cried. 


CHAPTER XXVI 
THe FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT 


RacHEL fell with stunning violence, and had she struck 
the road she might have paid for her resolution with 
her life. Fortunately she fell on the turf beside the 
way, and even before the carriage came to a halt she 
had staggered to her feet. Shaken and breathless as she 
was, the will to escape was still uppermost, and there was 
in that small frame wit as well as courage. The road was 
open, without fence on either side, but she had the 
quickness to foresee that she would be first sought on the 
side towards which she had fallen; and before Girardot 
set foot on the road she had staggered across it and crept 
through the shallow ditch on the other side. While the 
tutor, appalled by the catastrophe, was still unshipping 
with shaking fingers one of the lamps, she pushed her 
way through the brambles, and by the time he reached 
the spot, and began to throw his light—which blinded him 
to all but the ground on which it shone—about 
him, she had sunk down behind a bush and lay still 
as a hare in her form. But the bushes that hid her 
were no more than three or four paces from the road, 
and never did poor Puss’s heart beat more wildly than 
the girl’s. 

Girardot fully expected to find her lying dead or 
injured, and when he failed to do so, his first feeling 
was one of pure relief. But to that anger at her obsti- 
nacy, anger and a baser feeling quickly succeeded; and 
once assured that she had escaped with uninjured limbs, 
the tutor ran back along the road, flashing his light before 

240 


THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT 241 


him and calling on her to stop. He wasted half a min- 
ute in this, while she cautiously edged herself a little 
farther into the covert. Then, persuaded that she had 
not gone that way, he returned as speedily as he could, 
and did what she had foreseen that he would do. He 
crossed the ditch on the side on which she had fallen, 
and pushed his way amid the undergrowth, still calling 
her name and throwing his light hither and thither. 

Rachel had waited, trembling the while, for this, and the 
moment that her ears told her that he was breaking 
his way through the bushes she rose and under cover 
of the noise groped her way farther into the thicket. It 
was a wild edge of common, a wilderness of brambles, 
thick in one place, thin in another, and set sparsely 
with thorn trees. She tore her gown and her hands and 
scratched her face, but in her excitement she felt no pain, 
and so long as she dared and she could hear her pursuer 
moving she crept stealthily on. Then when she heard 
him leap back into the road, she sank down again. She 
heard his voice rise, answering the questions of the 
postboy. And now she guessed that he was beating the 
ditch on the side next to her. 

But she was by this time at some distance, twenty or 
thirty yards from the road, and she was wiser than to 
move. She trembled indeed, when she saw his light 
flashing over her head and knew that he had at last 
entered the brake and was beating the edge of it this 
way and that. But she only held her breath and crouched 
the lower. The wind of the night soughed over her, the 
unknown fathomless night that ordinarily held so many 
terrors for her. But now her only terror was of him. 

And oh, the relief when she saw his light retreating 
and again heard his feet sound on the hard road. A 
second conference followed, but now the voices were less 
distinct. Apparently the conclusion at which he and the 
postboy arrived was that the fugitive had been quicker 
on her feet than they had calculated—that she had, after 


242 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


all, fled back by the way they had come. At any rate 
the carriage was turned, not without delay and some 
cracking of the whip. A moment later she saw with trem- 
ulous thankfulness the lights travelling back towards 
Fordingbridge. 

She waited five minutes until the last sound of the 
horses’ feet had died away, and then she scrambled again 
into the road. She was free, but now that the crisis 
was over she sobbed with excitement and could hardly 
stand. Her left hand, strained in the fall, was nearly 
useless, she had lost a shoe, her knees trembled, her heart 
seemed to be bursting. And she was alone on an unknown 
road, in a strange country, in winter. 

Many, as unused to hardships as she was, would have 
lost hope and sunk down in a swoon that at that season 
might end in death. But Rachel was of firmer will. 
Mother, sister, home rose before her, and though her 
head ached and she was very sick, she limped painfully 
away along the road. Some house, some help she must 
find if she persevered; and though more than once sheer 
giddiness brought her to a stand, always she went on again. 
The stones of the road bruised her unshod foot, a cow 
that scrambled up before her drew from her a gasp of ter- 
ror; but she held on. The cottage fire-side shining in the 
night beckoned her, and more than once, and half uncon- 
sciously, she called on her mother. 

And by and by hope cheered her. High up on her left 
she espied in the universal gloom a single light, and she 
pressed on desperately towards it. A light! If it were 
not a star it must mean a house, it must mean help. 
But the road, which at this point was hedged on either 
side, did not always lead towards it; at times she lost 
sight of the light, and the ascent that rose to it taxed 
her last reserve of strength. But at last she drew abreast 
of it; she saw dimly a gap in the hedge, and conjectured 
a gate, found it and leant upon it. She made out a 
low building, from a window in which the blessed ray 


THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT 243 


seemed to beam, and she staggered across a sloping farm- 
yard, groped for and found a door. Too weak to call out 
and sinking with fatigue she beat on the door with her 
uninjured hand. 

She leant her head against the rough wood. If they 
would not come? If they would not let her in? She 
knew that she had not the strength to go further. She 
tried to ery out, but no sound issued from her parched 
throat. If they did not come she must fall where she 
was. Again and desperately she struck the door. 

Then joy! She heard a heavy step descending naked 
stairs, saw a gleam of light under the door, heard the 
slow trapsing of slippered feet across a stone floor. A 
voice asked gruffly who was there. She forced herself to 
utter some faint sound, the door was opened, slowly and 
suspiciously, and blinded by the sudden light the girl 
tottered across the threshold. 

“Lord ha’ mercy!” A stout woman, half dressed, con- 
fronted her. She held up the light that she carried, and 
with amazement, and it must be owned with suspicion, 
she surveyed the stranger. “Who be you, wench?” 

The girl could only point to her throat and whisper 
a hoarse word. But her white, drawn face, her torn, dis- 
ordered dress and the blood that disfigured her all spoke 
for her. “God ha’ mercy!” the woman repeated. “What 
has happened to you?” 

Without waiting for an answer, and though her surprise 
had still in it something of misgiving, she thrust for- 
ward a chair, and Rachel sank into it. After another 
searching look the woman bustled away and returned 
bearing a mug of milk. Again she looked her visitor 
over, withheld the milk, and hurried up the boxed-in stairs. 
A moment and she was down again, attended by a 
faint smell of brandy. “There, sip up that,’ she said, 
and setting her arms akimbo stood glaring at the girl. 
After a pause, “Ha’ some one set on you?” she asked. 

Rachel had drunk and gasped, and a little colour re- 


244 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


turned to her cheeks. She heaved a deep sigh, but instead 
of answering the question she looked at the door. “Can 
you lock it?” she whispered. “Oh please, please lock 
aby 

The woman shrugged her shoulders, but complied. She 
had fancied at first that the girl was a gipsy, and at 
farmhouses gipsies are no welcome visitors. But by this 
time her eyes had assured her that, torn and stained 
as the girl’s clothes were, they were no country wench’s. 
She marked the unshod and muddied foot, the scratched 
and blood-stained face, and pity got the better of suspicion. 
‘Lord’s sake,” she repeated, “some one has mishandled 
you, child! And some one should pay for it. Seems 
a constable’s job. D’you come in here, and I'll stir up 
the embers. You’re all of a shake wi’ cold.” 

Beckoned to follow, Rachel limped after her into an inner 
kitchen where a half-extinguished fire smouldered on the 
hearth. The woman placed her on a settle while she 
stirred the wood to a blaze and lowered a kettle that 
hung above it. “I saw the light,” Rachel whispered thank- 
fully. 

“Then *twas lucky my old man was sick. But you”— 
the woman stared at her—“you be no Whitsbury girl. 
Who be you if I may ask? It is late for a young lass 
like you to be tramping the roads.” 

“Some one—I wanted to get away from some one,” 
Rachel faltered. “I jumped out of a carriage. You are 
sure, you are quite sure, you won’t let any one in?” 

“No fear! The door’s locked, and *twon’t be opened 
again, noways. But there’s my old man a-thumping. 
He'll be in a fine stew to think what it’s about. Do 
you take another sip, my dear. There’s naught in it 
to harm you, only a spoonful of what John Tredescant 
the goodman’s cousin that lives seaward, sent us Christ- 
mas time. Do you take off your stockings, miss,” she 
continued, with another shrewd glance at her clothes, 
“and Tl bring you water to fettle yourself when I’ve 


THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT 245 


settled my man. Ill make you a bed on the settle, 
maybe.” 

She disappeared, and, lulled by the warm air of the 
kitchen, soothed by the homely aspect of the pots and 
pans gleaming in the firelight, of the racks of flitches 
hung overhead among bunches of herbs, Rachel leant her 
head against the wooden back of the settle and closed her 
eyes. But only her body rested, her nerves were still ajar, 
her brain worked. In thought she lived again the horrid 
hour, the trying scene through which she had passed; or 
if her mind for a moment wrenched itself from it, it was 
only to busy itself with the position in which Girardot’s 
cruel trick had placed her—with what would be said and 
what would be thought. The Countess had been kind at 
parting, but beneath her kindness the girl felt a subtle, 
a latent antagonism; and in what other quarter could she 
look for support? 

True, if her story were believed—but if it were not? 
She had not the strength to fight a battle, or face the 
suspicion that she foresaw. Only in one quarter, only 
in one house could she be sure of understanding, and pas- 
sionately she longed for her home. 

She was crying softly when the good wife returned 
and with rough motherliness bathed the sprained wrist 
and bound it up. She helped the girl to restore some 
order to her clothing, and to Rachel’s enquiry, “Why 
you be at Whitsbury,” she said. “From Fordingbridge? 
Why all of four miles for sure. And where be you from, 
miss? From Queen’s Folly? Well, I never!” she ejacu- 
lated in a tone of surprise. “Why my husband’s brother, 
Jacob Mew, he’ve a farm under my lord. But, good gra- 
cious, my lady, who'd ha’ thought of you running the roads 
at this time o’ night ?” 

“Oh, but,” Rachel explained eagerly, “I’m not my lady. 
I’m only the governess, Mrs. Mew. An 3 

She broke off and clutched the woman’s arm. Some 
one had knocked at the house-door! As Rachel had 





246 - QUEEN’S FOLLY 


knocked half an hour before, some one was knocking now, 
but more loudly and more vigorously, with a heavy hand. 
Rachel stared at the inner door, still holding Mrs. Mew’s 
arm. “Oh don’t, don’t let them in!” she whispered. 
“Promise me you won’t.” 

Mrs. Mew looked her uneasiness. “’Twasn’t my old 
man?” she suggested doubtfully. 

“No! No!” Rachel muttered. “It was there! At 
the door! If we are still, if we don’t answer, he may go 
away.” 

“Drat him, I hope he will!” 

“But you won’t let him in?” the girl insisted, her scared 
eyes roving the room in search of a hiding-place. “Prom- 
ise me.” 

The woman nodded, and the two held their breath. But 
the knocking was repeated and the sick man, hearing it, 
thumped on the floor and made further silence futile. “I 
must fend him off some ways,’ Mrs. Mew said, “or my old 
man will have a fit. But don’t you fear, miss, I'll speak 
to him from the window. He don’t come in here!” And 
in spite of Rachel’s efforts, who would still have detained 
her, she went into the outer room and closed the door 
behind her. 

Notwithstanding the woman’s promise the girl trembled. 
The man had shown himself so reckless, so desperate, so 
lost to all goodness that she held him capable of anything. 
He might drag her out by force, and what could the woman 
do to prevent him? Or he might tell some story— 
—say that she was mad, perhaps. Terror conquered 
her, and after listening awhile she crept across the floor 
to the door that closed the narrow boxed-in stairs, and 
holding it ajar she prepared to slip upstairs. 

She could hear the woman’s voice, and the length of 
the parley added to her panic. Nor without cause, for 
presently she heard the key grate in the lock and heard 
a heavy step, a man’s step, enter. The woman had be- 
trayed her! 


THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT 247 


Sick with fright, she crept up a couple of stairs and 
drew the door close behind her. In the darkness her 
heart beat as if it would suffocate her. Her senses 
seemed to be sharpened; she could hear, though the door 
was closed, the solemn tick of the tall clock and the 
chirp of a cricket on the hearth. Then the heavy step 
drew nearer, entered, crossed the floor of the room she 
had left. She heard the faithless woman cry, “Well to be 
sure, and what’s become * and then, as, too late, she 
turned to escape up the stairs, the door that masked her 
was plucked open and a hand grasped her skirt. 

“Softly, softly, ma’am!” said a well-known voice—but 
not, thank God! the one she had feared to hear. ‘“‘Let’s 
have a look at you! I’ve crowded tops’ls and royals to 
come up with you and now I’m here—hallo!” The 
speaker’s voice rose, suddenly and ludicrously charged with 
alarm, “I’m d d if she’s not fainting! Here, missus, 
here. Help! This is your business!” 

But, “No! No!” Rachel gasped in the immensity 
of her relief, and she stepped down. “I’m not going to 
faint, indeed, indeed I’m not. I shall be well—in a 
minute.” 

It was Captain Dunstan. He supported her to the 
settle, but Mrs. Mew, who was still a little in the dark, 
judged by the sternness of his face that the young lady 
would catch it by and by. But the Captain’s face was 
in shadow, and Mrs. Mew may have misread it. Still 
his next words confirmed her impression. 

“In another scrape?” he said, standing over poor Rachel, 
his hands, one of them holding a whip, in his pockets. 
“D’you know, young lady, you are more trouble than the 
worst pickle of a youngster I ever sent to the cabin gun! 
There’s seventeen miles—and about-ship twice—that I’ve 
followed you, and if I’ve not lamed Medea I’m precious 
lucky. Damme, what have you to say for yourself, eh?” 

Rachel looked up through her tears. “I am very, very 
grateful to you,’ she said—and her eyes said more than 








248 QUEEN'S POLLY 


her words. She felt safe at last—safe now. She knew, 
heaven knows why, that she could trust this man. 

“And, by gad,” he continued, surveying her, “you’ve 
been in the wars and no mistake !” 

“T never see a young lady so mauled!” Mrs. Mew said. 
“It?s a wonder she did not le down in the road and die. 
I took her for a gipsy when she come in. She was like 
nothing else!” 

“A gipsy? Too much of a gipsy! For ever in one 
trouble or another!” Yet his voice was more gentle than 
his words. “But now, enough of yarning, young lady. 
There'll be time enough for that by and by. D’you 
understand, ma’am, that we are not out of the wood yet, 
and we’ve got to act now if we act at all.” He looked 
at the tall clock. “I’ve thrown my coat over the mare, 
but if she’s not to catch cold and make matters worse 
we must be moving. D’you think you can travel?” 

“Travel?” Mrs. Mew exclaimed, and decided that 
Dunstan or no Dunstan—and she had been brought up 
to revere the name—the Captain was hard as a stone. 
“Why, in her state,” and indeed Rachel’s drawn face and 
weary eyes told the same tale, “she is no more fit to travel 
than I am to read print!” 

“She’s got to travel if she can,” the Captain replied 
doggedly. ‘“She’s got to sleep at the Folly early or late, 
and there’s no more to it!” 

“Then it will be dead,” said Mrs. Mew, bristling up in 
her indignation. 

“Alive or dead!” said the Captain. 

“Well I never !” 

But he turned to Rachel as if Mrs. Mew had not spoken. 
“Now, young woman, we shall see if you are made of 
sugar-stick or no,” he said. “I suppose you understand ? 
I suppose you understand why it’s necessary if the missus 
don’t? Can you go?” 

Rachel flushed faintly. “I have only one shoe,” she 
said. 


THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT 249 


“Only one shoe? Good God!” For a moment he 
seemed to be upset. “Good lord!” he repeated, an odd 
note in his voice. The next moment, however, he recovered 
himself. “Shoes be hanged!” he said. ‘One shoe or no 
shoe, ma’am, will you go? Full-rigged or jury—will you 
try ec” 

Rachel’s eyes met his. “I will try,’ she said meekly. 

“Good!” He was evidently pleased. “Black Dick, who 
only smiles when the bulkheads are knocked out, could say 
no more, ma’am, nor Mad Dick better. Come! we'll round 
the point yet! I’ll double the stirrup over the saddle 
and you'll ride the mare to Fordingbridge—she’s as quiet 
as a lamb now. And I’ll get horses at the Greyhound, 
if I have to burn the house down! There, missus, you 
get her ready, while I rig the saddle.” 

But Mrs. Mew could not contain herself. “It’s my 
belief the young lady will die,” she said. “I say it, and 
I should know. I declare I think you are a very cruel 
man !” 

“Oh, she’ll not die!” the Captain said carelessly, and he 
turned to the door. “She’s not of the dying sort!” 

“Her foot’s cut to ribands!” 

He hung a moment at the door. He seemed to hesitate. 
Then “Well, plait ’*em up!” he said heartlessly, and 
tramped out. 

“T declare,” Mrs. Mew said viciously, “the one man’s 
as big a brute as the other!” Which was an enormous 
thing for her to say of a Dunstan. “Are you going to trust 
yourself with him, my dear ?” 

“Yes,”’ Rachel said. 


CHAPTER XXVII 
THE RETURN 


But more than once during the endless dark hour that 
followed the girl repented. Of course they made but slow 
progress, Rachel perched, trembling and as helpless as 
a sack, on her uneasy saddle, the Captain trudging beside 
her and leading the mare. Now and then he threw her a 
curt word of encouragement but, for the most part he 
plodded on in silence, or at rare intervals broke into a line 
of doggerel and as abruptly broke off again. The girl, 
shaken with every step, could have wept with pure fatigue. 
The saddle galled her, her wrist burned, she ached in every 
limb, she knew that a start or a stumble would unseat her ; 
and though he had forced his riding-cloak upon her, she 
was chilled to the bone. 

She could have wept and would have found it a re- 
lief to weep. But she did not, for the man who walked 
beside her, and if his drooping head and slouching step 
went for anything, was as weary as she was, had taken 
possession of her. He had set up a standard and she 
felt herself bound to act up to it. He had not spared 
himself, and he had made it clear that he expected her 
not to spare herself. He had forced her to understand 
that there were times when to suffer in body was the 
least costly way of escape. 

So she ached and shivered, and a score of times thought 
that she would fall, but she endured in silence, because the 
man would have it so. For her heart was full to bursting 
with gratitude to him. As she looked down on his bent 
head as he toiled beside her, as she measured what he had 

250 


THE RETURN 251 


done and what she owed to him, she was infinitely moved. 
She was nothing to him, her peril or her safety alike 
indifferent, her fate a trifle. Yet on the mere suspi- 
cion that she was in danger he had stooped from his 
place, he had thought of her and for her; for her, 
the dependant who was no care or charge of his. He 
had faced, barely risen from a sick bed, the perils of the 
road, perils that loomed large in her eyes, and had rid- 
den the interminable miles that they were now retracing 
—to save her! He had done this to save her and her 
good name. For she did not forget that; on the contrary 
she thought much of it, not knowing for which to be 
more grateful, the delicacy with which he had laid his 
finger on the difficulty, or the firmness with which he had 
forced her to meet it. 

And it had been nothing to him. What did it matter 
to the Honourable George Dunstan if his brother’s govern- 
ess, poor silly child, was ruined by a villain’s deceit 
and her own folly? Nothing, less than nothing. She 
longed with a full heart to thank him, longed for fitting 
words, yet knew that she would never dare to thank him. 

At long last a dog barked in the night, buildings loomed 
up on either hand, they plodded wearily into the main 
road at Fordingbridge. But the village slept, not a 
light shone in cottage or house, and it was not until 
the Captain had shouted again and again, hammered the 
door and thrown gravel at the windows, that the inn 
by the river awoke. At last a lattice opened, a sulky voice 
asked what the devil was the matter. What did they want 
at that time of night? 

“Horses!” the Captain answered stormily. “A chaise 
to Queen’s Folly, man! And hurry, hurry! Double 
mileage if you are quick!” 

The authority that rang in his voice, his mastery, his 
persistence seemed god-like to Rachel, cowering and shaking 
at his side—he had lifted her down without ceremony. 
Jove-like, too, was the effect of his name. Lights flick- 


252 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


ered everywhere, and within a minute or two she was in- 
side, warmed at a fire, obsequiously tended by a dis- 
hevelled hostess. “An accident!” the Captain explained 
shortly. “The young lady has been thrown out of a 
carriage on her way to Salisbury. I came up and—now 
quick’s the word, man. We want to get on!” 

But the landlord had a word to say, and by and. by 
drew him aside. “No accident, I am afraid, Captain,” 
he muttered. “A rum business. The boy turned in as 
I was closing. And from what he let out—he was fair 
frightened—the young lady threw herself out. A mercy 
she was not killed ’cording to him, for they was going 
eight miles an hour.” 

“What became of the man?” the Captain asked, seeing 
all was known, and gripping his crop with an ugly look. 

“Paid ’im off at Burgate Corner—they came down into 
the main road there, or you’d ha’ met *em. He went 
off afoot, mad, and swearing to raise your hair! I asked 
the lad what they was doing on the Whitsbury road, but 
he shut up quick at that. He wasn’t here ten minutes. 
Mortal afeard he’d hear more of it, I fancy.” 

aS, d sneak! If I had been here——” 

“But the young lady wasn’t hurt ?” 

“No thanks to them! But do you keep a still tongue, 
my man. Least said soonest mended. Are the horses 
ready ?” 

A minute later the team jingled out, and Rachel, so 
weary that she could hardly stand, was handed into the 
chaise, the Captain plunged in after her, and they rumbled 
over the bridge, and took the road at a canter, the horses, 
stung by the cold wind that blew across the marshes, a little 
out of hand. The way was flat, the postboys intent on 
earning their fees pushed on. It was not the first time 
that Rachel had travelled that road with the Captain, but 
little had she expected on that former occasion that she 
would ever retrace it with a heart bursting with gratitude 
to her companion. 





THE RETURN 253 


Wisely he let her be, and not a word was said until they 
had rattled through sleeping Ringwood and were breasting 
the rise to the Forest, where the hill and the sandy road 
brought the horses to their collars. It was the girl who, 
harassed by fears of the reception before her, and quiver- 
ing with nervousness, broke the silence. “They will be all 
in bed,” she said, her voice betraying her alarm at the 
prospect. 

“Not they!” 

“But they'll not be expectin 

“They will be expecting Medea,” he answered grimly. 
“T’ll wager Tom will be up.” 

“Oh!” she cried. “Was it Medea?” She was horror- 
stricken. For Medea and her chances were the talk of the 
house, and had reached even the schoolroom. “Suppose— 
suppose something had happened to her.” 

“Suppose something had happened to you!” he retorted. 
“Don’t be silly, ma’am. She’ll be sent over in the morn- 
ing. She’ll be none the worse. It is to be hoped you'll 
be none the worse either.” 

“Oh, dear, dear,” she quavered, not at all reassured. “I 
hope I can get in without rousing any one.” 

“Rousing any one?” he replied bluntly. “We’re going 
to rouse all hands. That’s the course we are laying. It 
is no use whimpering, ma’am,’ he continued, as Ra- 
chel murmured a dismayed remonstrance. “Come aboard 
with a clean sheet! That’s your line. Better a jobation 
to-night than everlasting talk to-morrow. I suppose you 
have the sense, young lady, to see that. Why damme, if 
you are to sneak aboard through the hawse-hole, what have 
we come all this way for, when you are not fit to stand on 
your feet? No, ma’am, no, we’ll pipe all hands, man the 
side-ropes and go aboard Captain’s fashion and no sneak- 
ing. Confound it,” he added, with an irritation that was 
not so real as it sounded, “what are you afraid of?” 

“Lady Ellingham.” 

“Lady Ellingham? And you throw yourself out of a 


o> 





254 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


carriage going at eight miles an hour! Yes, you did, 
girl. I’ve heard all about it. Threw yourself out head 
first to escape that d d trickster. I wish I had been 
there, the villain! And you are afraid of my lady! 
Pooh! Spare your breath to cool your porridge.” 

Somehow the words were not harsh, and before Rachel 
could explain the Captain broke into one of his queer 
ditties : 





“To Rodney, brave but low in cash, 
Your golden gifts bespoke!” 


Ay, by gad, he got all he deserved, did Rodney! — 


To Keppel, rich but not so rash, 
You gave a box of oak! 


But that’s a d d slander! However, here we are, and 
there’s a light in the stables.” He thrust out his head 
and “Rattle ’em up, my lads!” he cried. “And give *em 
a hail! Shout like blazes!” 

A moment later and he was out of the chaise and 
thundering at the great doors, while the postboys shouted 
and Tom, who had appeared on the instant, jabbered: 
anxious questions at his elbow. Rachel, quailing at the 
uproar, crept out and hid herself behind the Captain. She 
would fain have implored him to desist, but with her hand 
on his sleeve her courage failed. A light flashed in the hall 
windows, the heavy bolts were withdrawn, and a startled 
Charles, whose tousled head suggested that he had been 
sleeping at his post, looked out. 

The Captain strode in. “Her ladyship in bed?” 

“Yes, sir. It’s two o’clock.” 

“Call her woman then. Do you hear? Bid her rouse 
my lady. And be quick, sleepy-head !” 

“Oh, no, no!” Rachel prayed. ‘Please, please don’t!” 

“Call her ladyship!” repeated the Captain, raising his 
voice. “Ask her to be good enough to come down. Say 





THE RETURN 255 


I’ve broken my leg if you like. And stir your stumps, do 
you hear ?” 

“Oh, please, please don’t!” Rachel pleaded. It’s quite 
wrong! It is out of the question!” 

But the Captain only stormed. “Off, quick! And bid 
°em bring lights and get some of the women—Mrs. 
Jemmett, any one! And you,” he turned sharply on the 
panic-stricken girl, and thrust forward a chair, “sit there! 
You are not fit to stand! And now you may look as sick 
as you like! The sorrier the better! 


To Keppel, rich but not so rash, 
You gave a heart of oak! 


Hearts of oak—there, leave it to me, I’ll spin the yarn. 
Hallo, Bowles!” He turned on the astonished Bowles as 
the butler entered, half-dressed and gaping. “Get some 
brandy, and don’t goggle your sleepy eyes at me, man! 
The young lady is ill, devilish ill, d’you hear—been pitched 
out of a chaise and the devil knows what! Had the deuce 
of atime! Brandy, man, and I want Mrs. Jemmett!” 

A mild voice from the doorway asked, “What about 
Medea, Captain ?” 

“Oh, hang Medea!” he returned, but with a distinct fall 
in his voice. “She’s at the Greyhound at Fordingbridge. 
Go back in the chaise, Tom, and get her. Bring her up 
in the morning.” 

But poor Rachel? While Captain George strode hither 
and thither, and stormed, and seemed intent on making 
as much noise as he could, she would have given the world 
to sink into the floor, or to be a hundred miles away, no 
matter what happened to her. She wrung her hands. 
The house to be roused for her! The Countess to be 
dragged from her bed for her! Oh, it was too much! She 
could have wept in pure vexation, and for a moment came 
near, very near to hating the man who was bringing all 
this trouble upon her. 

But he was obdurate. He would manage the thing after 


256 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


his own fashion. She, all must give way to him. And 
when innumerable servants had peeped in on various 
pretences, with lights or no matter what, the moment she 
so much dreaded came. Lady Hllingham, in a wrapper 
and with her maid behind her, appeared on the stairs and 
came gliding down, a stately figure with a face of very du- 
bious meaning. Surprise, wonder, and displeasure were all 
painted on it, and now Rachel did indeed wish that she 
could sink into the floor. 

“George!” My lady’s voice was pitched high, as from 
the last step she surveyed the scene—the girl cowering in 
her chair, the Captain striding to and fro, the gaping 
servants. “What has happened? What is it?” She held 
up her candle. 

But the Captain was unabashed. “The matter?” he 
retorted. “Why, I’ve brought back Miss South devilish 
ill! She’s been pitched out of the chaise—threw herself 
out, to speak by the log. *Twas a trick of that wretched 
villain—it was as I thought. I found her on the road, 
Jamed and by herself, and lord knows what would have 
happened to her if I had not found her. And she’s half 
dead. Some of the women must put her to bed. She’s 
not fit to do anything for herself.” 

But my lady still looked displeased. “I am sorry that 
Miss South is hurt,” she said coldly. “But was it neces- 
sary to call me down?” 

“T thought so,” with a sort of thrust—almost a challenge 
in his tone. “Captain responsible, Kitty.” 

“T think if you had sent for Mrs. Jemmett,” my lady 
began, and then her eyes met Rachel’s, she read the timid 
appeal in them, marked the exhaustion stamped on the 
white, weary face. She saw the bandaged arm and the 
torn, disordered dress, and her sympathies awoke. She 
deplored the event, she had the strongest reasons for dis- 
liking the Captain’s part in it, but she was not hard- 
hearted, and she moved to Rachel’s side. “I hope that 
you are not seriously hurt?” she asked in a gentler tone. 


THE RETURN 257 


“But you'll tell us the tale to-morrow. You should be in 
bed now. Mrs. Jemmett will see that you have all you 
require and: . 

“And let some one stay with her,’ said the Captain 
bluntly. “Shell not sleep in a hurry. She’s had the 
deuce of a time.” 

“Very good,” my lady agreed—but thought again what 
a pity it was that George would mix himself up in it. 
She had had her suspicions before, but they were more than 
suspicions now. “Mrs. Jemmett, will you ” and turn- 
ing from the girl, who had not found courage to say a 
word, she gave her orders. 

But when Rachel, venturing at last on a faltering word 
of apology, had been borne away in the housekeeper’s 
care and the servants had dispersed, my lady turned on the 
offender. “Oh, you ridiculous man!” she said, with a 
gesture of despair. “Why did you do it?” 

“What? Go after the girl?” 

“Yes.” And then, deftly shifting her ground as she 
saw his face darken, “And get me out of bed in this ridicu- 
lous fashion ?” 

“To stop people’s tongues! And the women’s tongues 
in particular. Oh, I know them. Still, thank ye, Kitty, 
you’re a good sort, and I’ll remember it. And now, my 
dear, you may go back to your beauty sleep. It’s pretty 
near the dog-watch, ain’t it? By gad I am tired!” 

“Foolish, foolish man!” she said. But her eyes were 
soft, she could never resist him. “And you'll pay for it. 
You'll be a perfect wreck to-morrow. And I wish that 
were the worst of it! Was it a 

“Girardot? Yes, it was, the villain! The letter was a 
forgery. He got in and was making off with her—had 
bribed the postboy no doubt. He had got as far as 
Whitsbury on the by-road—heaven knows where he was 
going to take her! Then she threw herself out, and it is 
heaven’s mercy that she didn’t kill herself !”’ 

“But are you quite sure ” she began, and then, 














258 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Now, don’t be angry, George—but are you quite sure that 
she wasn’t—that she didn’t know se 

But George bristled up so fiercely that she stopped. 
“Ym sure of this,” he said, “that she is as good a woman 
as you are, and I know no better. And she has the pluck 
of ten men. Does it look like collusion when she threw 
herself out of that chaise at j 

“Look here, my lad!” An unexpected voice broke in on 
their conference. My lord in a fluttering dressing-gown 
and with a candle in his hand looked down from the land- 
ing. “Suppose you stop quarrelling about the filly and 
tell me if you’ve brought the mare back! If you’ve lamed 
her, George——” 

“She’s as sound as I am,” the Captain said meekly. “I 
haven’t stirred a hair on her.” 

“Well,” with a mischievous chuckle. “I hope that you 
can say the same of the young one! Oh, George, George, 
it runs in the family after all! And my lady thought you 
a Joseph !” 

“Go to blazes!” said the Captain. 

“No, ’ll go to bed, as you permit it,” my lord rejoined, 
and as he retreated down the corridor, he sang: 








“Oh, they loved and they rode in a hackney chaise, 
And ‘My own’ says he, and ‘Oh don’t’ she prays. 
But the night was dark and the spark aflame, 

And the chaise was close and his lips the same, 
And what does a tender ‘Oh don’t’ avail, 
When pins are fickle and laces are frail?” 


“D—n it!” cried the Captain savagely. “Fred, Vl 
break your bones !” 

My lord’s laughter died away above. But there was a 
very odd look on my lady’s face as her eyes followed his 
retreat. She breathed quickly. ) 


CHAPTER XXVIII 
THE CAPTAIN AT Bay 


CapTAIN Dunstan flattered himself, in his seaman’s 
simplicity, that he had stayed the flood of talk. Of course 
he had merely guided it into another channel, and vainly 
did Mrs. Jemmett, staunch in her defence of the family, 
set herself against it. “I’ll never believe it till I see it!” 
she declared, her cap-ribbons quivering with indignation 
as she stirred her tea. “A little whey-faced thing as came 
sneaking into the house without so much as Bo! to throw 
at a goose! And took her tea in this very room and sat 
in that very chair and was thankful! Yes, I say, Bowles 
thankful for a word of notice!” 

Bowles reflected. His back to the hearth, he was taking 
his “morning,” a silver measure of small beer. He looked 
into it and apparently he found inspiration in it. “At 
any rate she didn’t put on no airs,” he said. 

“Airs?” 'The housekeeper’s cap-ribbons shook again. 
“T should think not! Who is she to put on airs, I should 
like to know? The governess, and a poor piece at that! 
But it’s not her. It is the Captain what gets over me. 
He that was ever so steady. I’d no more have believed it 
of him than of old Caesar on the chain there!’ 

“Ay, ma’am, but that is where the trouble is!’ Bowles 
said. “If the Captain weren’t steady, and I’m sure it’s a 
wonder he is, and blood thicker than water, there’d be no 
trouble. It'd arrange itself, Mrs. J.” 

Mrs. Jemmett frowned. “Bowles! Remember your- 
self!” she said. “Not in this room, if you please. 

259 


260 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Besides,” she continued, yielding to temptation, “there’s 
two goes to that, and though it may be only her slyness, 
I'll not think as bad of her as that. But her impudence? 
To think of the likes of her lifting her eyes to the family! 
Why, it'd be a disgrace to the name as would never be 
wiped out!” 

But Bowles was cynical. “It wouldn’t be the first as 
we know,” he said. “My lord’s rode the name pretty hard, 
and not much harm done.” 

“That’s a different thing,” the housekeeper replied 
tartly. “Not that I’m defending him and his creatures, 
heaven knows! Id like to see ’em all tied up and whipped. 
And if my lady weren’t an angel, and I don’t care who 
knows it, there’d ha’ been mud thrown before this, enough 
to bP) 

“Now, Mrs. J., Mrs. J., you’re taking sides.” 

“Well, I do think of the family, Bowles! And I 
declare I could almost find it in my heart to speak to the 
man myself !” 

“What? My lord? You never mean it!” 

“No, drat the man! Nor did I say it. You know what 
I mean. To the Captain, of course.” 

“Well,” he decided thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t if I was 
you. He’ll hear enough from her ladyship. Did you 
mind her face last night, leastways this morning? Well, 
I did, and you may take it from me she no more liked all 
that rumpus than we liked being called out of our beds. 
No, ma’am. And I shall be surprised if the young lady 
is here this day two weeks.” 

“But will that turn him, d’you think, Bowles?” 

“Tt depends, ma’am, on how my lady handles him. He’s 
hard to drive but easy to lead. And if anyone has the 
length of his foot it’s her ladyship.” 

“Well, I'll never believe the thing till I see it,” Mrs. 
Jemmett rejoined. “A little mouse of a child with no more 
about her than a curl-paper! Why, Jane the housemaid 
is good looks beside her, to say nothing of Miss Froyle, as 





THE CAPTAIN AT BAY 261 


it’s my belief would have him to-morrow and thankful— 
and come for the purpose if you ask me. And as fine a 
figure of a lady as you’d wish to see. I declare I can’t 
think what the men find to see in this chit! First the 
tutor, and then the Captain!” 

The butler smirked. ‘Well, ma’am, I’ve looked her over 
myself. And though she’s slim, I’ve noticed her, and 
she’s not so thin as she looks, and she’s well shaped about 
the a 

“Bowles !”? 

“TI was going to say, the figure, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Jemmett stared. “Well, I declare! You’ve 
looked her over, have you, and—well to be sure! Indeed? 
But where women are concerned, men are fools and always 
will be.” 

“The sect, Mrs. J., the sect !’? Bowles replied with feeling 
as he eyed her ample proportions. ‘“We’re weak, ma’am. 
We're weak! The slaves of fancy.” 

“Slaves of fiddle-de-dee! You'll be looking at Jane 
next, I suppose. Let me catch you atit,my man! Well, I 
never! If I let my fancy run away with me like that fs 

“Does it never run away, Mrs. J.?” the butler asked 
softly. 

Whatever the answer—and a topic so delicate may be 
better abandoned—Bowles was right on one point. If 
Onions was to be believed, there was no braver man in the 
service than his master. But when the Captain presented 
himself some two hours later in my lady’s room, he wore 
a guilty air, though he strove to cover it by making the 
most of some news that had come by the mail. It was 
weighty news, but with a good conscience he might not 
have published the matter with so excessive an air of 
triumph. 

“Kitty, give me joy!” he announced. “Give me joy, 
my dear! I’ve heard from Whitehall, and by George I’ve 
got the Polyphemus. The Polyphemus! Seventy-four, 
French built, the finest lines you ever saw! A perfect 








262 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


duck, as handy as a frigate, and as fast on a wind as half 
the fourth-rates !” 

My lady, however, preserved a provoking calmness. 
“Well, ’'m pleased, George,” she said, “if it pleases you.” 

“Pleases me? I should think it does please me! The 
Polyphemus! Why, half the men between the Hamoaze 
and Harwich will be wanting to cut my throat! It’s great 
news, my dear. Splendid news! I’m to commission her 
at Devonport, rig her out there, and when she’s ready take 
her round to Spithead, to join Lord Nelson’s squadron— 
but there!’ He stopped abruptly. “That’s secret orders 
and I shouldn’t have told you, so do you keep a still 
tongue about that, Kitty. There’s great work afoot, but I 
mustn’t out with it yet. Ill wager though we shall give 
the country something to talk about this time!” 

Still my lady refused to be carried away. “You will 
be at sea for some time then?” she asked thoughtfully. 
She did not seem to be displeased by the prospect. 

“Why?” He spoke with a sudden drop in his tone, for 
he saw her drift. “Do you want to get rid of me? But, 
lord, to get, of all the snug craft I know, the 
Polyphemus. I could kick myself for joy of it!” 

“But 33 

“Confound it, Kitty,” he remonstrated, “and I thought 
you would be as pleased as I am!” 

“Never mind about the ship for a minute,’ my lady 
said. “I want to speak to you about something else.” 

“And I can think of nothing else! Well, there!” He 
threw himself into a chair. “Speak on!” He looked un- 
easy. 

“You know, you made an absurd fuss last night,” my 
lady said. “But that’s a small thing, and I won’t say 
that I don’t understand your reason. But have you 
considered—I’m sure that you know very well what I am 
going to say—how far you are going with that girl? And 
what is to come of it? It’s no good jumping up and down 
like that, George! If you are just amusing yourself with 





THE CAPTAIN AT BAY 263 


her it is bad, and it is unlike you and hard on her. 
Though,” my lady continued with contempt, “as the little 
fool has lost her heart once already since she has been here, 
I don’t know that that matters or that I have much sym- 
pathy to spare for her! Still, she seems to have behaved 
well last night, and I’m willing to think the best of her— 
to think at any rate that she deserves a better fate than to 
be played with.” 

“T agree.” 

Then 

“But ’m not playing with her!” He sprang to his 
feet. “I am going to make her my wife.” 

My lady shrugged her shoulders. “I was afraid so,” 
she said, unmoved by his violence. “I was afraid that you 
had that in your mind, George. But you haven’t spoken 
to her?” 

“Not a word!” 

“Then,” with a sigh of relief, and her face cleared, 
“there is no harm done yet. Thank God for that! She 
has no claim on you yet, and I implore you, George,”— 
my lady’s voice was very serious—“to listen to me before 
you give her one. I beseech you to look at the thing as if 
the case were not your own. Can you say that she is a 
fit wife for you—for you, a Dunstan? She may be a good 
girl, I am not saying that she is not, though she is a 
simpleton. It is not that. But she is not of any family, 
she is not of our world, and she is not of the class in which 
you should look for a wife. You do not even know who 
she is.” 

“She is a parson’s daughter.” 

“A poor curate’s, I suppose—if her tale be true. But 
all governesses are curate’s daughters. It is the common 
tale, and as often true as their references. But grant it 
true, she is no wife for you. She is a dependant, almost 
a servant. And whatever you say—there, it is no good 
bobbing up and down!—a nobody. You can’t get out of 
that. And you ought to marry somebody, and somebody— 


264 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


I don’t care whether she has a penny or not—in our class.” 

“Charlotte Froyle, I suppose?” 

“Why not—if you like her?” 

“But,” he exploded, “I don’t like her!” 

“Well, at any rate,” she said, rising in defence of her 
friend, “she was not in love and madly in love—yes, 
George, it is no good wincing, it’s the truth—with another 
man a month ago.” 

“She wasn’t in love with him last night!” he retorted. 
“T don’t think you quite grasp what she did. She risked 
her life—and never in all my time, boarding or cutting out, 
have I run greater risk—to escape from him! If she don’t 
bear the marks of it to-day I’m a liar! She threw herself 
out when it was just odd or even whether she broke her 
neck or no! I tell you, Kitty,” he continued, beginning 
to stride the room in growing excitement, “that girl is one 
in a thousand and she’s the girl for me. She has a spirit 
and a courage in that little body—that dear little body, 
yes, I’ll say it, damme, and not be faced down by you—that 
would not shame a Nelson! That would shrink from 
nothing and count no cost if duty led her that way! I’ve 
seen her tried three times and—not worthy? not of my 
class? I tell you there never was a woman more fit to be 
the wife of a seaman and bear a seaman’s children! And 
the wife of a sailor and the mother of my children she 
shall be, God willing—if she will have me!” 

“Tf?” my lady cried in equal wrath and contempt—but 
in truth she was touched, and her anger if not her scorn 
was forced. “If? Are you fool enough to suppose that 
she would refuse you ?” 

“To-day? Yes. Did you not say a moment ago that 
she was in love with another man a month back?” 

“Yes, the little fool! And probably is to-day for all 
this fuss and outcry! But if you think that with all you 
have to offer she will not jump at you ii 

“T do think so. If she is the girl I take her for, yes I 








THE CAPTAIN AT BAY 265 


do. My dear, you don’t know her. You are on the 
quarter-deck and she is forward and she keeps her distance 
and behaves according! You don’t know what a brave 
heart she has, what a spirit, what a courage!” 

“T tell you what it is, George!” my lady said viciously. 
“T am sick of hearing of her courage. Her courage? You 
talk of nothing else, while I do know that ever since she 
has been here she has been a cause of trouble. First 
that wretched man and then you! Oh, George, it is 
impossible—impossible that you can be such a silly! And 
when I look at you and see you tired and no more than 
the shadow of yourself this morning and think that she is 
the cause of it, and that she has come between you and me 
—oh, I wish to heaven,” my lady cried with passion, “that 
I had never seen her! Wasn’t it enough that she must 
risk your life in that wretched duel ?” 

“She ate 

“Well, didn’t she? Don’t look at me like that. What— 
what is the matter? Wasn’t she the cause?” 

“Of the duel? No, by G—d she wasn’t! Did you 
think that, Kitty? She had nothing in the world to do 
with it! Not a jot except that she tried to stop it.” 

“Then who——” but even before she finished the 
sentence, fear leapt into her eyes. 

“Who? Another person. It doesn’t matter who. It is 
over and done with. D—n the duel. Let’s hear no more 
about it. T’m sick of it!” 

“But—no,” she said with decision, “you must tell me, 
George!” She breathed quickly, a hand pressed to her 
breast. “If it was not about this girl you fought, who— 
oh! You don’t mean that it was—about me?” 

“Confound it, Kitty!” Impatiently he put the thing 
away with his hand. “What does it matter if it was? It 
is over and done with. And it was no fault of yours. The 
blackguard said something that he should not have said. 
That was all.” 


266 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


“About me ?” 

He nodded sulkily. “Well, in a way. And I wish to 
heaven that I had lamed him for it.” 

“And I didn’t know!” My lady spoke softly, and there 
were tears. in her eyes. “George, my best, best friend, 
what shall I say to you? What shall I—and, oh!” she 
continued, with a sob half suppressed, “I am going to lose 
you. She has stolen you from me—and I hate her for it!” 

George shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He abhorred a 
scene. “Well, you can do this,” he said earnestly. “You 
can be a friend to her, my dear. She needs one. And I 
want you to promise to keep her here till I come back. I 
look to be away three months, and how am I to keep her 
safe till I come back? Or find her if she is not here?” 

My lady looked at him, and there were doubt and trouble 
in her gaze. “If I thought it was for your good,” she said 
with a sigh, “I would do more for you than that. But I 
don’t, oh, George, I don’t. I can’t. She may be all you 
say, and good. And yet she may be quite unfit to be your 
wife. There are only Fred’s life and the boy’s between 
you—and the Folly and all this. And you ought to 
consider that. You may think her this or that here, 
where there is no one to compare with her; but if you saw 
her in town? What figure would she make in town—in 
the Square? She has neither presence, nor birth, nor 
training. She has never learned the way of it, she could 
never hold her own. You would see her beside others +3 

“Charlotte Froyle, I suppose!” he cried. “You would 
have me marry her? ‘That doll? That pattern of 
primness and propriety? Why, you are only a simpleton 
after all, or you are blind, my lady! Or you would see 
that this girl would fill, and has the spirit to fill, any 
station she is called to, and fill it so that those about her 
will know that she is there! Ay, any station—though 
God forbid, God forbid indeed that she should ever take 
yours! She is quarter-deck right through, my girl, and 





THE CAPTAIN AR BAY 267 


will send ’em to leeward fast enough when there is occasion. 
I know, I know, I tell you.” 

“You foolish, foolish man!” my lady said. And sighed 
and smiled. 

“Not abitofit! You'll see. But you haven’t promised 
me yet. You must promise me you will keep her, Kitty. 
I shall be miserable if I don’t know that she is with 
you, and safe.” 

“But George, it is the most absurd thing! I am to 
keep her whether I will or no. And what if she won’t have 
you after all!” 

“That is my business.” - 

“Or suppose you change your mind?” 

“Well, that is my business too.” 

“You are not going to speak to her now?” 

“No,” he owned gloomily. “It would be useless or I 
would—within the hour. She is not ready for it, and ’m 
not such a puppy, I don’t think so well of myself—Fred has 
told me often enough that I am a bear—as to believe that 
I can carry a girl by storm; nor so ill of her as to believe 
that she will take me to-day if she was in love with another 
man yesterday. One foot on board and one on shore— 
she’s not of that kind. No, I must give her time. But 
when I come ashore again and have made her know what 
I want—well, she may not take me then. But at any rate 
I shall have saved her from that scoundrel. You will 
promise me, Kitty?” 

“Yes,” she said at last, with averted eyes. “I will 
promise, George.” After all, she reflected, the future 
might hold many chances. The girl might see another, or 
he might change his mind. 

He was not quite satisfied. “And you'll play fair, 
Kitty? You'll not cross my hawse?” 

“You dear silly man,” she cried, “with your hawses! I 
suppose that you mean that I am not to set her against 
you ?” 


268 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Well, about that.” 

“Well, I won’t then. There! I won’t even ”? she 
looked at him half quizzically, half tenderly. “You know, 
George, you are very, very simple after all.” 

“And what then?” he asked suspiciously. “You won’t 
what, eh?” 

“T won’t do what nine women out of ten would do, 
stupid man. I won’t tell her that if she marries you she 
will ruin you. Though if she is what you think her, that 
would checkmate you, if anything would!” 

He stared. “Lord!” he exclaimed in amazement. 
“What women are, the best of them!” 

“Ay!” she replied with venom. “You will find that out 
some day, even if she is all you think! She’ll surprise you, 
my man! I know she’s an angel now! She is all smiles 
and syrup! She has no faults, no tempers, no whims, no 
tricks, no will of her own—she’s perfect! Because you 
love her !” 

"He nodded, smiling foolishly. 

My lady stamped her foot with passion. “And I hate 
her! I hate her, for with her big eyes and her silly child’s 
face she has robbed me of my brother! And I am to bear 
with her and hug her and fondle her! Oh, George,” my 
lady continued, and there were angry tears in her eyes, 
“vou are a monster!” 

“But if you gain a sister?” said foolish George. 

“Gain a sister?” she retorted passionately. “Gain a 
fiddlestick! Go away, go away, and let me cry by myself!” 





CHAPTER XXIX 
Her Sorrer SIDE 


THE high may steal a horse where the low may not look 
over the wall; which in this connection means that about 
a governess there must be no scandal. Rachel thought 
often of this as she lay by during the next two days, thank- 
ful for the prostration that, while it privileged her to hide 
herself, dulled to some extent the sharpness of recollection. 
That she had escaped from a peril, the very thought of 
which and of the struggle that had attended it wrung her 
nerves—for this, as she lay in the darkened room, she was 
deeply, most deeply grateful. And while the memory of 
the lover who had not scrupled to plot her ruin now awoke 
in her only fear and abhorrence, the man who had saved 
her, and to save her had not.spared himself, came in, it is 
certain, for a full share in her thoughts. 

He had saved her, or she had saved herself. She had 
escaped from the snare so cunningly laid for her. And so 
far well. But, alas, the matter did not end there. The 
incidents that had attended her adventure forced them- 
selves again and again on her mind, and she saw herself 
the butt of a hundred shafts, of a hundred hateful 
surmises. She recalled the disapproving face with which 
the Countess had greeted her, and the servants’ wonder. 
She reflected in how serious, how odious a light scandal 
would set the whole matter; and a score of times she 
stifled a groan as she sank lower in the bed, thankful for 
the few hours that intervened before she must face the cen- 
sorious eyes that awaited her. 

269 


270 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


He had been kind, oh, he had been kind! But he had 
also been cruel. And had he been wise? 

For two days she saw no one except Priscilla, who waited 
on her—and the housekeeper. Mrs. Jemmett visited her 
early, conveyed her ladyship’s orders that she should keep 
her bed, inquired if she needed the apothecary. But the 
housekeeper said little and asked no questions, and her 
silence, her pinched lips and guarded looks warned the 
girl what she must expect when she rose. 

“T shall have to go,” she thought, too weary to rebel. “IL 
shall have to go.” She had no doubt that the Countess 
would condemn her. For what could be more unbecoming, 
more dubious, in a governess than what had happened? 
But with her mind made up to the worst she rose in the 
end with a firmer courage. 

In Lady Ann she met her first trial—an Ann affection- 
~ ate, but strident, shameless, burning with curiosity, and 
primed in regions which she was forbidden to visit. “Do 
tell,” she urged, wreathing herself about her unfortunate 
preceptress. “You'll tell me, won’t you? Did you throw 
yourself out? Really, truly, throw yourself out? And 
was it—now it’s no good pretending, Southy—was it Mr. 
Girardot? And did he try to 1 

“Ann!” Rachel cried, horrified. “For shame! You 
should know nothing about such things! Don’t you know 
how unbecoming iF 

“But I do know. I know a lot, and you may as well tell 
me. ‘Tom told Bodmin, and he 9 

“Then Tom ought to be ashamed of himself!” Rachel 
retorted in a rage. “And you too, Lady Ann. I am 
surprised at you. You should not talk to the servants. 
No, Ill not listen to you. And I am not going to tell you 
anything about it.” | 

“Now you are going to be a beast!” Ann decided. “If 
you don’t tell me, I shall think there’s something shocking! 
And that’s what they all think. Tom said that he was sure 
that Mr. Girardot tried to——” 











HER SOFTER SIDE 271 


“Ann !” Rachel rose in her wrath. 

But the child was not to be silenced. “Well, if you 
won’t tell me,” she said, “‘you’ll have to tell mother. She’s 
going to send for you at twelve o’clock. And Jane expects 
that it was not all on one side, for she says he’d a voice that 
would lure a bird off a bush, and she’s sure he ui 

Rachel did silence her then—she was furious. But, 
after all, this w&s a trifle compared with the ordeal of 
encountering Lady Ellingham—compared with the mo- 
ment when the Countess, seated in state in her room 
looked up from her needlework and pointed to a chair. 
“Be so good as to sit there,” she said. “I hope that you 
are better?” with a glance at the bandaged wrist. “If you 
do not feel equal to talking to-day I will see you to- 
morrow.” 

Rachel murmured that she was much better. 

My lady, after allowing her eyes to dwell for a moment 
on the girl’s face, dropped them to her work again. ‘Then 
you will perhaps,” she said, in the tone of one sitting in 
judgment, “tell me what happened. I have heard but a 
confused story, and I think that in view of your position 
with us I should know all, Miss South.” 

“Certainly,” Rachel assented. 

“Will you tell me then?” And as the girl hesitated, 
uncertain where to begin, the Countess looked up. “You 
have nothing to conceal, I take it ?” 

“Nothing!” Rachel said firmly, and with an effort she 
began her story. 

When she came, however, no little confused, to Girardot’s 
appearance, “Why did you not get out at once?” Lady 
Ellingham asked. 

“T was surprised, and the chaise was moving before I—” 
she began to stammer—“before I knew who it was, or—or 
could think what to do.” 

“Ah {?? 

“And when I knew,” the girl continued in evident 
distress, “I could not get out—in the road, in the dark. 





272 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


He said that he would leave me at the next stage.” 

“That was Fordingbridge? Just so. Precisely. But 
he did not. Then why did you not get out there?” 

Poor Rachel’s face burned. “I tried to get out,’ she 
said, “but he asked me did I want to make a scandal. 
And he said that he would get out short of Salisbury, and 
before 

“Before you did anything,’ my lady said still more 
dryly, “you were going on?” 

KV og:t? 

“Along with him? TI see.” 

Rachel rose. “Lady Ellingham,” she protested, 
trembling, “if you do not believe me 4) 

“Be good enough to sit down,” my lady rejoined. “I 
did not say that I did not believe you. But as I know 
what has passed, between you and this person, it is not 
only natural, Miss South, it is right that I should sift 
your story. It is my duty to you and to myself to do 
so. You say that this meeting was quite unexpected 
—on your part?” 

“Absolutely.” Rachel was almost in tears. 

“And unwelcome ?” 

“Hateful !” 

“Very well. Then be so good as to go on.” 

Rachel did so with an effort, but when she came with 
hot cheeks to the climax and to the moment when Girardot 
‘put his arm round her and she threw herself out of 
the carriage, the Countess’s hands fell on her lap and 
she looked up. “You might have been killed!” she said. 

“{—I did not hurt myself much. I fell on the grass, 
I think. I did not feel it.” 

My lady measured the speaker with frowning eyes. She 
seemed to be considering whether she was really telling 
the truth. “And what then?” 

The girl, relieved that the worst was over, described 
how she had hidden in the thicket, watched the search, 
seen the carriage at last move off. Finally how with only 








HER SOFTER SIDE 273 


one shoe she had trudged along the dark road, espied the 
light, reached the farm. 

“With one shoe?” 

“T had lost the other in the ditch.” 

“Which one was it?” 

“The right.” 

“Then will you be good enough to let me see that foot ?” 

For a moment the girl’s face flamed. She hesitated. 
“T think,” my lady said coldly, “you will be well advised 
to let me see it.” Then, “Do not be a fool, girl,” she 
continued. “I suppose you wish the truth to be known.” 

Unwillingly Rachel removed the stocking. The slender 
white foot was bruised and blistered, covered with scratches, 
with here and there the black mark of a thorn. 

Lady Ellingham nodded. “I see,” she said. “Put on 
your stocking, child. Facts, you know, speak for them- 
selves. And then I understand Captain Dunstan found 
you at the farm—I shall see Mrs. Mew—and brought 
you down to Fordingbridge on Medea.” | 

“Yes,”’ Rachel said, thankful that the tale was told. 

“Have you been in the habit of riding?” 

“T have never ridden before.” 

“Ah!” my lady dropped her eyes on her work. A long — 
pause. “Well, while you are here, Coker might give you 
a lesson or two. Lady Ann’s skirt would fit you I dare 
say.” 

Rachel could hardly bélieve her ears. Then there was 
to be no question of her going. Impulsively she put her 
thought into words. “Then I am not to go?” she fal- 
tered. 

My lady smiled. “Not on account of this,” she said. 
“If—if your conscience is clear, Miss South.” 

“It is!” Rachel cried. “But I feared that you might 
think that I was to blame.” 

“Why oh 

“Because,” Rachel owned meekly, “I had been so foolish 
before.” 


274 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“But there is an end of that now, I presume?” 

“Oh, yes!” 

The Countess, bending over her work, seemed to be lost 
in thought. Presently, “It was fortunate that Captain 
Dunstan followed you,” she observed. 

The girl did not answer, and my lady looking up saw 
that there were tears in her eyes. “I was saying,’ she 
repeated, “that it was fortunate that Captain Dunstan fol- 
lowed you.” 

“Tt was so very, very kind of him,” Rachel said, her lips 
quivering. “If you would please to thank him.” 

“T am afraid I cannot do that. He left this morning 
to take over a ship at Plymouth. Do you know,” the 
Countess continued with a sharp look, “I think it was 
good of him, Miss South. But I am not surprised, for 
I know no one who has a kinder heart, though he does 
not wear it on his sleeve.” She waited for Rachel to say 
something, but Rachel was silent, and the Countess drew 
a conclusion the opposite of that which some would have 
drawn. “You know, I suppose,” she continued, “that he 
is a very distinguished officer. Lord Nelson thinks highly 
of him, and it is at his request that he is to be attached to 
his squadron.” 

“It was very wonderful of him,” Rachel murmured. 

“Of Lord Nelson ?” 

“No, that he should think of me,” Rachel explained 
with a simplicity that my lady at first distrusted and then, 
after a glance at the girl’s face, accepted. 

“T think it was. But he has his reward for his unself- 
ishness, for he has got the ship that he wanted and sails 
for St. Helen’s within a week or ten days. But I wish he 
were safe ashore, for I fear there will be danger if what 
I hear be true. You know, I suppose, that he has been 
twice wounded ?” 

“No, I did not know.” 

“No? Then he has not told you?” 

“Oh, no,” Rachel exclaimed in surprise at the question. 


HER SOFTER SIDE 275 


“He has not talked to you much ?” 

eNO! 

“Not as you came back from Whitsbury ?” 

“Oh, no. I was too tired. And no doubt he was think- 
ing of his ship.” 

“He did not know of it then. But he is not a person 
who talks much, or likes to be thanked. Indeed, I should 
like to know what he said when you thanked him.” 

“T did not,’ Rachel confessed. “I did not think ‘i 
she stopped. 

“What?” 

“That he would care about it, Lady Ellingham. I 
thought that “ 

“That it was a small matter, perhaps ?” 

“Well—to him.” 

“T do not think that Lord Ellingham thought that it 
was a small matter—to Medea! There, you need not look 
so frightened! Medea is none the worse. But (i 
Lady Ellngham paused—had she not been generous 
enough, foolish enough? Had she not paid her debt to 
him? Surely he could expect no more. Then she re- 
lented. “But I think you are mistaken in one thing. 
Captain Dunstan thought a good deal of—of your safety. 
He inquired after you every morning until he left.” 

Rachel did not answer, but my lady saw that her eyes 
were wet. And, “There, silly, silly woman I am!” she 
thought. “I have not only not crossed his hawse, as he 
calls it, but I am sending this child away to brood over 
him and his generosity—when I do believe that she had 
not a thought of him before.” She paused awhile, and 
then aloud, “Your father was in orders, was he not?” she 
asked. 

“Yes,” Rachel replied in surprise at the sudden change 
of subject. Lady Ellingham was certainly very odd this 
morning. 

“Had he a cure?” 

“He was Vicar of Alden in Devonshire. He was a 











276 QUBEN SO FOLLY 


ereat-nephew,” the girl explained with modest pride, “of 
Dr. South, who was Chaplain to King Charles the Martyr.” 

Lady Ellingham’s needle hung suspended. “Indeed ?” 
she said. “I have read his sermons. And what brothers 
and sisters have you?” 

“Only one sister, who is younger.” 

“Ah! Well’—unconsciously the Countess expressed her 
thoughts aloud—“that is to the good.” 

Rachel stared, but did not understand and ventured on 
no comment. 

“T will speak to Coker about your riding,” Lady Elling- 
ham continued. “It will be good for Ann to have a 
companion, as I cannot often go out with her. And she 
is rather troublesome at breakfast now that we have com- 
pany; I think it will be well for you to come down with 
her for a time. She may be less in the way perhaps 
if you are with her. You seemed to have gained some 
control over her. I think—that is all now, Miss South.” 

Rachel rose. She hesitated. “I think you are very 
kind to me,” she said timidly. 

“Yes,” Lady Ellingham was on the point of answering, 
“fT am, you simpleton! Kinder than you think, and 
kinder to you than to myself!” But she contented herself 
with a good-humoured nod of dismissal. 

When the girl was gone, however, she rose, cast her 
work aside, and moving to a mirror surveyed herself in 
it. “Oh, you fool, you!” she murmured. “Cutting your 
own throat and helping your best, your only friend to 
lower himself! And all because you are too soft-hearted 
and he has taken a fancy to that child’s baby face and 
pleading eyes! When you ought instead to be choking her. 
Kitty, Kitty, I don’t know which is the bigger fool, you or 
he !”” 


CHAPTER XXX 
Riping LESSoNns 


“Hatto, Ann!” Lord Robert exclaimed next morning, 
looking up from his plate. “Who has curry-combed that 
tangle of yours so early?” Then, “Oh crikey!” he added 
in a different tone, and he scrambled with a beaming smile 
to his feet. 

It had been Rachel’s plan to be seated at the table 
before the party assembled, and to be gone, were it 
possible, before all were at table; for she regarded this 
first appearance as a formidable thing. But she had reck- 
oned without Ann, who, usually early, chose on this morn- 
ing to be late, and moreover she had not remembered that it 
-was a hunting morning. When she made her entrance, 
therefore, shyly following her pupil, three of the men 
were already in possession. Sir Austin was warming his 
tightly breeched old knees before the fire and did not see 
her. The chaplain was at the side-table, taking a morn- 
ing draught of ale. The beau alone therefore saw the 
unusual. MRachel’s adventure had shed a halo of romance 
about the girl, her seclusion had heightened this, and Lord 
Robert saw a chance of sport. 

“Splendid!” he said with ready geniality. “You are 
mending Ann’s manners already, Miss South. She’s only 
early when she isn’t wanted. And begad, getting up early 
suits you. Blooming this morning! Do you sit here.” 
He dragged back the chair beside his own. 

But the chaplain also thought the occasion good. He too 
bustled forward. “Hate a jealous rider, don’t you, Miss 
South?” he said. “Take this chair.” He drew back 

277 


278 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


another. “Not afraid to face the light, ll wager. None 
the worse I hope—ha! ha!—for your little adventure?” 

“Now don’t come thrusting in, parson,” Lord Robert 
retorted. “Miss South is going to make my tea.” 

“La, Bobbie,” Ann drawled, her quick eyes at work. 
“How funny you are! You never ask me to make your 
tea !” 

“No, my dear, not since you left a sample of your mane 
in my cup! And I’m not drawn by beauty with a horse- 
hair, as the poet says. When your head is as neat as Miss 
South’s you shall. Oh, come, Miss South, you are not go- 
ing to be so cruel as to sit down there!” 

“Thank you,” Rachel replied with composure, though 
she was anything but grateful for his attentions. “I pre- 
fer to be farther from the fire.” 

“Too hot? Well, perhaps itis. I think I’ll move down 
too.” 

“Lady Ann,” Rachel said firmly, “sit here, if you 
please.” 

The chaplain grinned. “Beware of all, but most beware 
of men!” he hummed sotto voce. “A little pork-pie, Miss 
South? May I help you?” 

“Donkey!” the unabashed Bobbie struck in. “Do you 
think that Miss South lives on pork meat? A little dew, 
a butterfly’s wing and a flake of honey! Allow me—the 
honey !” 

“Ta, Bobbie, you are funny!” Ann drawled. 

“No, no honey, thank you,” Rachel said. The beau 
meant no harm, he meant at worst a little amusement. 
But the chaplain’s grin put an unpleasant point on his at- 
tentions, and unused to persiflage Rachel was thankful 
when the door opened. But it opened only to admit Lord 
Ellingham, and her heart sank. Another man! And, she 
feared, another tormentor! 

But my lord, who with his boyish smile had done more 
mischief in three years than Bobbie would do in his whole 
life, seemed nevertheless to bring a fresher air into the 


RIDING LESSONS 279 


room. “Hallo!” he exclaimed, nodding pleasantly. “Miss 
South here? Glad to see you about again. Quite re- 
covered? That’s well. My lady in no end of a flutter 
about you. Gad!” as he turned to Sir Austin, “there'll 
be a burning scent when the sun is up and the frost 
is off the grass.” 

It was a part of his charm—and alas, how much had 
he exercised it!—that knack of putting others at their 
ease, of addressing them as equals, of taking for granted 
their interest in all that concerned him. Rachel felt the 
attraction, and was grateful to him; and perhaps owned 
the attraction not the less because in his hunting dress 
he made a gallant show. He drew off the others’ attention 
—that too was a part of his tact—and she was able to take 
her meal in peace. A few minutes later Lady Ellingham 
appeared, followed by the handsome, languid Charlotte. 
The Countess greeted her dependant with a pleasant word, 
and as she passed re-tied Ann’s hair-riband. But over 
Miss Froyle’s face a cloud fell. The addition to the party 
was not to her mind. 

They fell to talking about the prospects of the day, 
then passed to a matter that in a twinkling riveted Rachel’s 
attention. In that house interest in the subject was 
natural, apart from George’s share in it, for the neigh- 
bourhood of Portsmouth and Southampton gave a naval 
tone to their thoughts, St. Helen’s Roads and Spithead 
were household words, and admirals were among their 
nearest neighbours. But indeed many were the houses 
from one end of England to the other in which the chances 
of the Baltic expedition were being discussed that morn- 
ing; many the hearts it set fluttering. Its object—to 
detach Denmark from Napoleon’s interest—was no longer 
a secret; the Gazette of the day before had announced it, 
and not a few trembled not only for the safety of those 
whom they loved but for the issue. A disaster must much 
increase the danger of an invasion. 

To Rachel it was all new, all enlightenment. She had 


280 QUEEN'S FOLLY) 


not been in the way of hearing such things debated 
by those who were behind the scenes, and it was with 
painful interest that she listened. Why, painful, she 
could hardly say, nor why her colour ebbed. She told 
herself that it was the risk that so many gallant men 
were running that moved her, and not the risk that the 
one she knew was running. For kind as he had been to 
her, he stood so far from her that it seemed presumption 
to feel an anxiety on his behalf which those nearest to 
him affected to disclaim. 

“George thought,” his brother said presently, “that they 
should have given the command to Nelson.” 

“But George thinks of nobody else!” Lord Robert replied. 
“Tf you ask me”’—he paused to select a rasher of bacon— 
“T think Nelson is a bit rash and they are right. He'll 
come to grief one of these days, will George’s pet. Suppose 
he had had a fleet at Teneriffe in—when was it? Ninety- 
seven ?—instead of a ship or two? He got a confounded 
licking there, as it was.” 

“Ay, but if he had led the first attack himself? That’s 
what George says! He swears that he would have put 
the shoe on the other foot.” 

“But that’s all may-be! May-be he’d have got killed 
first round! And Parker’s a safer man in my opinion. 
It’s not Vinegar Parker, it’s Vinegar Parker’s son, you 
know. Anyhow it’ll be a bloody business if the Danes 
stand to it. Devilish stubborn fellows, mind you, the 
Danes! Stubborn fellows! None of your sing-song get- 
up-to-morrow Dons.” 

“Ha! ha! Danes and Dons!” said Sir Austin. 

“T wish,” Lady Ellingham murmured, but with no 
show of feeling, “that George were safe back again.” 

“Gad, he’ll be as happy as a school-boy,” his brother 
declared. “Sure to be in the thick of it, and nothing 
he likes better. Rather him than I! Cold weather, north 
winds, and the bulkheads down in his cabin. Ugh! 
Who’d be a sailor ?” 


RIDING LESSONS 281 


“It is not a polished service,” Sir Austin pronounced 
gravely. “Rough, very rough! George, of course—but, 
oh dear, I have met some dreadful examples | Impossible ! 
Quite impossible !” 

“Hard knocks and no prize-money this cruise!” 

“I am afraid so,” my lady assented, handling the urn. 
“Poor George !” 

“But George hasn’t done badly,” Lord Robert suggested. 
“TI suppose if he has made a thousand in the last five years 
he has made twenty ?” 

“He made fifteen in the Medora,’ agreed my lord, 
rising and moving to the side-table to help himself. “But 
that was in a frigate, of course—all the money’s made in 
the frigates. And plaguey hard knocks for it too, my lad! 
It would not suit your genius, Bobbie, as well as fluttering 
round the petticoats ?” 

“Now do I flutter?” Bobbie protested. “”Pon hon- 
our,” he continued, lowering his voice and addressing 
Lady Hllingham—he was sitting beside her, “take that 
tempestuous little petticoat over yonder—it is not from 
me she’s in danger. Whoever it is, it is not me, my lady.” 

Unfortunately Lord Ellingham on his way back to the 
table had stopped to speak to Rachel—he was at that 
instant speaking to her; and this put a point on the beau’s 
words that he perhaps did not intend. The Countess, 
however, whatever she thought, gave no sign. “I am 
sure that Miss South,” she said, “if you mean Miss South, 
is in no danger.” 

“Ah!” yirtuously. ‘Good job too. A nice little thing. 
Good manners.” 

My lord as he sat down took up the old thread. “Any- 
way,” he said, “George won’t be the last in at the death, 
Vll wager! Lucky dog, too! Sure to come out all right.” 

“Don’t!” my lady’s voice rose sharply. “Don’t say 
that !” 

“Touch wood, eh? Oh, all right, my lady. But God 
bless me, don’t cry out before you are hurt!” 


282 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


In an instinctive reaching out for sympathy, Lady 
Ellingham glanced down the table. She could hardly 
have said whether she desired or feared to see that which 
she saw. The girl was so absorbed in the discussion, 
and so avid for more, that she was unconscious of ob- 
servation; and her parted lips, her suspended breath, her 
tragic eyes told a tale. “Little fool,” my lady thought, 
with something of fellow-feeling, yet something of con- 
tempt also. “I do believe—and yesterday she loved an- 
other man, and may love another to-morrow!” And drawn 
one way by antagonism and another by sympathy she could 
have at once kissed the girl and boxed her ears. Her 
jealousy decided her, and, “Miss South,” she said sharply, 
“you may take Ann upstairs. And be good enough to 
see that her hair-riband is properly tied to-morrow.” 

Recalled by the snub, Rachel rose in confusion, and 
dragged away the reluctant Ann. But in the hall Ann 
rebelled. She was set on seeing the hunting party start 
from the door, and Rachel went up alone, her thoughts 
in a whirl. This first breakfast in public which she had 
anticipated with so much misgiving now stood for nothing. 
She could think only of the talk at the table, and the 
wider world and the wider issues it had opened to her. 
Admirals’ names flitted across her mind, she heard the 
crash of mighty fleets, the booming of guns, the North 
Sea breaking as she had heard the sea break in winter 
storms on the shore before the cottage. She trembled 
as she pictured these things, while they who should have 
trembled were so cold, so indifferent, they did not seem 
to care. And he had been so kind to her, he had acted 
so generously, thought so wisely for her—he who had 
so many and so much graver things to think of! 

The bulkheads down in his cabin! She did not know 
what it meant, but it had a wretched sound. And as she 
looked out on the bare leafless trees and the herbage 
white with frost where the cold rays of the sun had not 
touched it, she shivered; thinking of the biting winds, 


RIDING LESSONS 283 


the decks swept by freezing spray, the thud of the waves 
as they struck the mounting bows. A man’s work? Yes, 
and more than a man’s. Rachel saw him not as he was— 
for in truth he was at that moment snugly ensconced in his 
room at the Fountain at Plymouth—but as a heroic figure, 
high on some fancied poop, riding the storm, facing the 
gale, wind-blown, magnificent ! 

But she thought of him very humbly and of any 
question of love as between her and him she did not dream. 
At the Folly he was a great man, my lord’s brother; but 
on the sea, as she saw him, by the light of what she had 
heard that morning, he loomed stupendous. Even if she 
had not so lately surrendered her heart to another that the 
idea appeared shameful and degrading, even if love had 
not come to seem a thing to distrust and shun, he stood 
so far from her, that the thought did not occur to her. 
‘But she did feel warm gratitude to him, as she recalled 
his kindness, and deep anxiety as she measured his danger. 
“He'll not be the last in it!” my lord had said. No, she 
was sure of that, sure, as she clasped her hands and fer- 
vently thought a prayer for him! No, he would not be the 
last in it! 

And they, the others, cared so little! They were so 
indifferent—though he might never come back. 

Until now the events of the great world had possessed 
little interest for the girl. She could not have said whether 
Pitt was a Whig or a Tory! But now all was changed. 
Henceforth her ears were greedily open to every scrap of 
news or of rumour; and had her time been wholly spent 
as before in the solitude of the schoolroom, she would have 
been miserable. But day by day she found herself taken 
more and more into the life of the house, her unaffected 
simplicity aiding the process. Sir Austin condescended 
to pay her stately compliments, my lord was hearty and 
cheery; she learned how to keep Lord Robert in check 
and the chaplain, whom she disliked, at a distance. “Miss 
Froyle, it is true, ignored her presence when she could, 


284 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


and greeted her with a stare when she could not; and 
my lady was changeable after an odd, disconcerting 
fashion, at one moment almost cordial, at another abash- 
ing her with a formal word, or wounding her by a sharp 
order that sent her smarting from the room. 

Unfortunately for every kind word there was a snub; for 
the Countess’s goodwill was continually outweighed by 
two feelings that, inconsistent as they were, swayed her 
by turns. The one she knew to be only too well-based 
and not all ignoble. Against the other, a haunting vague 
suspicion of which she had never been able wholly to 
rid herself, she struggled, but only with partial success. 
Shaken off, it recurred with every fresh proof of the girl’s 
power to charm. 

But, uncertain and fickle as my lady seemed, she was 
as good as her word in a matter that caused some talk 
in the house. “If you please, miss,” Priscilla said one 
day, entering as Rachel was closing the lesson books and 
preparing to replace them, “Mr. Coker wishes to know if 
you will begin your riding-lessons this morning?” 

Rachel turned from the shelf in a flutter, her heart in 
her mouth. She had not thought that my lady would 
remember. Or perhaps she had changed her mind. “Oh 
but,” she stammered, “I don’t think that . 

“Tt’s her ladyship’s orders, miss. And I am to bring 
Lady Ann’s skirt if you say yes.” 

“Oh! Rachel replied in a small voice. “Very well, 
Priscilla. I will get ready.” 

“T’7ll put out the skirt, miss. And please, Mr. Coker 
will be waiting in the stable-court.” 

“And by gum, what fun!” Ann cried, tossing up a 
book and catching it again. “Ill bet you'll get a fall! 
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall! Humpty Dumpty had 
a great fall!” And chanting this, which she thought 
a fine piece of wit, she flew in great glee to summon 
Bodmin to witness the disaster. 

Rachel would gladly have shunned the ordeal, but she 





RIDING LESSONS 285 


dared not slight Lady Ellingham’s kindness, and when 
she was ready—and very awkward she felt in her unwonted 
garb—she crept down the stairs, hiding her tremors as 
well as she could. Alas! she found Ann and her brother 
already on the scene, dancing up and down in their eager- 
ness, and in the background a group of grinning men 
and maids peeping from the back-offices. 

But Coker, a shrewd person who drew his own conclu- 
sions, had foreseen this, and instead of mounting her 
from the stable-block he led her outside and drew up 
the pony beside a handy log. ‘Now miss, don’t you be 
afraid,” he said comfortably. “The old pony will carry 
you like an armchair. Keep your knee in the crook and 
you can’t fall, and your hands down and look square 
before you. Ill shorten the stirrup a hole and you'll sit 
the straighter. Eyes to the front, that’s the secret of 
Jadies’ riding, and you’ll make no sore backs. Now IT’ll 
lead her on and all you have to do is to sit straight. 
Old Jessie knows as well as you do that you’re new 
to it, and she'll take as much care of you as a nurse 
of a babby! There! Now I’ll let her go and you walk 
her down the avenue. Don’t hold her head, just feel 
her mouth and keep your hands down. That’s it! Now, 
my lord,’ as he turned on Bodmin, “have done, if you 
please! None of your tricks, or Ill tell the Earl! I will 
as sure as I am here!” 

He let her do no more than walk that day, and in 
half an hour Rachel had overcome the worst of her fears. 
She felt at home in the saddle and could even venture 
to look about her. She alighted with a sense of achiev- 
ment and a gallant determination to do more another day. 
And the next time she trotted a hundred yards with 
Coker running beside her, and crying, “Lift yourself, 
miss! Lift yourself! That’s it! Don’t hang by her 
mouth! That’s it! Now eyes to the front! LHyes to 
the front! Well done, old gal!’ he added, addressing 
the pony, “I’m blest if you are not an armchair!” 


286 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


He was a judicious teacher, and if she was not a 
dashing learner and had more fears to conquer than 
those she betrayed, she was determined to overcome them, 
for she foresaw that the ability to ride might be a valu- 
able asset in another situation. And Coker took pains 
with her, as Tom in an injudicious moment ventured to 
remark. He got a flea in his ear. “Do you go and 
strap the chestnut!” snapped the stud-groom. “And see 
you do it or I’ll strap you. I know what I’m about, 
my lad, if you don’t.” For Coker was prudent and had 
not given thought to that taking out of Medea for noth- 
ing. 

So within ten days Rachel, enjoying the delicious sen- 
sation of a canter, tasted the real joys of riding, and bitten 
by it, was promoted at the end of a fortnight to ride out 
with her pupil. True,.Ann complained bitterly of the 
old pony’s sluggish pace and by turns patronised her 
companion and tickled her companion’s mount. But 
Rachel returned flushed with triumph. As it happened 
they fell in a hundred yards from the house with the men, 
who had been out rabbiting, and her colour and bright eyes 
gave her the additional attraction that she needed. My 
lord himself lifted her down amid a shower of laughing 
compliments that made her feel almost one of themselves. 
How kind he was, and how pleasant! He was, indeed, so 
kind that it occurred to him to ride out with them him- 
self, and more than once he did so, criticised her seat 
and her hands, and flattered himself that he was finishing 
her education. 

But of course this made talk in the house. The grooms 
viewing the matter professionally went no further than 
to decide that she would make a rider—in time. And 
Coker accepted her half-crown and a grateful smile as 
if the former had been a guinea. But the housemaids 
tossed their heads—things were come to a pretty pass 
with governesses riding out and his lordship playing 


RIDING LESSONS 287 


riding-master! And the footmen winked and said she 
had a well-turned leg—at which the kitchen-maids giggled. 

Mrs. Jemmett said little, but perhaps thought the more. 
And the butler said as good as nothing. But presently 
one was found to say something—and something to the 
purpose. 


CHAPTER XXXII 
Toe FLoop-Gates RAISED 


Lapy ELLINGHAM was knitting her brows ovcr the house- 
keeper’s books, when the door opened and her friend came 
in. Charlotte did not move at once to the table. She 
paused before a mirror and languidly straightened her hat ; 
not because her appearance was anything to her at the 
moment, but because, as my lady might have seen had 
she looked up and marked the glint in her visitor’s eye, 
the girl needed a minute in which to compose herself. 
In the end Charlotte took off the hat and with a pettish 
gesture flung it on the table. 

“J hate that hat!” she said. 

My lady laid down her pen. She looked up. “What 
is the matter with it?” 

“Tt is too large and too flowery and too—oh, too every-. 
thing. I wish,’ Charlotte continued, dropping into the 
nearest chair, “I had your easy nature, Kitty! Nothing 
ever puts you out, I declare.” 

Lady Ellingham suppressed a sigh. “I don’t know 
that,” she replied patiently. “Perhaps it is only that I 
don’t show it as quickly as you do, Charlotte.” 

“No! Nor as openly! Well, perhaps it is that. 
Anyway,” she decided, frowning at the offending hat, 
“it is a hideous thing!” 

“Certainly I have seen you in one that I liked bet- 
ter.” 

“T hope so. I shall give it to my maid when I leave 
to-morrow. No, I shan’t! Or I shall be seeing it every 
day and I hate it!” Then with a yawn, “How long do you 
stay here, Kitty?” 

288 


THE FLOOD-GATES RAISED 289 


“At the Folly?” 

eV ag 77 

“Well I my lady hesitated. “To tell you the truth, 
I don’t really know. I am uncertain at present.” 

Charlotie sat up in well-simulated surprise. “But won’t 
you be dreadfully lonely here—with only the children? 
When is Lord Ellingham leaving ?” 

“He has not said.” Lady Ellingham’s tone was cold. 
Between friends certain things come to be taken for 
granted, but my lady had never invited discussion upon 
them, and she did not mean to do so now. 

She reckoned, however, without her guest. Charlotte 
had her reasons for trespassing on the forbidden ground, 
and she was not going to be warned off. “Hasn’t he 
said?” she rejoined. You know Bobbie goes with us to- 
morrow ?” 

“Yes, I understand so.” 

“And,” after a long pause, “it is a bit unusual, Kitty, 
isn’t it?” 

The Countess coloured, but she strove to maintain her 
reserve. “Perhaps it is,’ she said carelessly. “Fred is 
not fond of the country, and, as you know, he seldom stays 
here long—unless we have company.” 

The girl saw her opportunity and took it resolutely. 
“Then,” she said, “what keeps him here now?” 

My lady looked steadily at her. A little pink in her 
cheeks betrayed her displeasure. But before she could 
speak, Charlotte leapt the gap and came to the point with 
a rush. “I tell you what it is, Kitty,” she said. “You 
ought not to keep that girl here.” 

“Who do you a 

“Ob, you know whom I mean, quite well.” The young 
lady’s eyes gleamed with spite. “Your Miss South, to 
be sure! Who else? If you do, depend upon it you will 
repent it. She’s a minx, and the worst kind of minx, 
asly, demure one! You’ve brought her too much forward, 
my dear, and she’s deceiving vou! She’s throwing 








290 QUEEN’S FOLLY, 


dust in your eyes every day! You need only go as far 
as the window at the end of the corridor, the one that 
looks on the stable court, and if they are there still— 
as they were five minutes ago—you will know what I 
know! And what,’ she added viciously, “I expect that 
every one in the house except you knows already!” 

Lady Ellingham had not foreseen speech of this plain- 
ness. But she had learned to control herself, she had had 
indeed only too much reason to learn the lesson, and she 
continued to look steadily at her companion. “My dear 
Charlotte,” she said gravely, “it is you who deceive 
yourself. You don’t like the girl—I don’t know why, 
but I can guess.” This was a little feline stab. “And, 
believe me, whether you have good reason or not for the 
feeling, it leads your fancy astray. I have no doubt, in- 
deed I have good ground to know, that whatever you have 
seen, it means nothing. It is quite harmless.” 

“And you are not going 4 

“To the corridor window?” with a faint smile. “Fool- 
ish girl! No, of course not. Why should I?” She took 
up her pen. “I have something better to do, my dear. 
I know Miss South pretty well by this time—and her 
affairs. And I have these books to do.” 

The smile that accompanied the careless words was more 
than Charlotte in her excitement could bear. She sprang 
to her feet, her eyes sparkling. She snatched up her 
hat. “I don’t believe you care!” she said, reckless of 
consequences, and casting delicacy to the winds. “I don’t 
believe that you have an ounce of feeling in you! You 
are a monster, Kitty! A monster! To see this going on 
and to do nothing! I wouldn’t be you for a for a 
fortune! Oh, I’ve no patience with you! You are blind! 
Blind !” 

“My dear,” my lady replied, and she ticked off an item 
in the book with care. “Don’t be silly! You excite 
yourself about nothing !” 








THE FLOOD-GATES RAISED 291 


But “You’re a monster!” Charlotte repeated, tears of 
vexation in her eyes. And she flung out of the room. 

Lady Ellingham, her eyes on the book, added up a 
column of pence and—for women can do two things at 
once—added it correctly. “I made a mistake once and I 
won’t make it again,” her thoughts ran. “I won’t lower 
myself. He is at least a gentleman.” She reckoned up 
the shillings, doing a sum on her fingers, then the pounds. 
She initialled the total. “No, I am sure he would not,” 
she thought. “And there is George too. Charlotte does 
not know about George.” 

The corridor window—and that spiteful girl watching 
to see if she would go to it? Not for her life! But she 
no longer saw the figures in the book. « She stared at them 
mechanically, and her face was pale and thoughtful. If 
there were any truth in this, what was she to believe? 
Whom was she to trust if those candid eyes and baby looks 
did but mark the guile that this jealous girl denounced? 
If this were true, true at all, to what depths of contempt 
and degradation was she falling? Nay, to what a depth 
had she fallen already, if such a thing was believed by those 
about her, if, thinking themselves in the disgraceful secret, 
they whispered behind her back, smiled in wonder at her 
fatuity, her blindness, her weakness? 

No grounds! No, certainly no grounds in this case. 
But then he had deceived her again and again. She had 
known it, had long known it, and had wrapped herself in 
her pride and framed her life and steeled her looks to 
repel pity. Pity? Whatever happened she had told her- 
self that she would escape that. But hitherto he had at 
least kept his infidelities out of her sight, he had not 
paraded them before her. He had had so much respect for 
her. But if this were so—in her own home, with her own 
dependant? That were too much, and she would not bear 
it! No, never, never! She examined with minuteness 
the nib of her pen, saw that she had by some unconscious 


292 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


pressure split it, and looked about for her penknife. But 
her hand shook as she took up the knife, and she laid it 
down again, her face drawn with pain. 

The corridor window? She rose and rang the bell. 
When the man came, she did not raise her eyes. “Is Lady 
Ann riding to-day ?” 

“Yes, my lady, they’ve just gone.” 

“I wanted her to mend a pen. I’ve spoiled this one. 
Get me a new one from the library.” 

So that temptation was out of her way! When the pen 
came she returned with a wrench to the books and finished 
them, and spoke to Mrs. Jemmett about them. And at 
Junch, a slight meal in those days, she wore her usual placid 
face, and as usual spoke little. There was some talk of 
George; he had sailed from Portsmouth with Lord Nelson’s 
squadron, he had, been signalled in the Downs, and should 
by this time have joined Admiral Parker’s fleet in Yar- 
mouth Roads. Probably there would be a letter from 
him in a day or two—but then his letters were all the 
same—they never contained much beyond praises of the 
Polyphemus and his officers—never were such good fellows ! 
—and of his “people”—no ship’s company ever had such 
stout hearts! The party laughed at his enthusiasm, but 
there was an undernote of tenderness in the laughter. 
Soon, very soon—my lord noted that the wind was westerly 
—there might be news, and it would doubtless be good 
news for England, for was not Lord Nelson there? But 
the Danes were stubborn fellows and it might be sad 
news for some! No one confessed to anxiety—but! 

Apparently, then Charlotte Froyle’s warning had fallen 
on barren ground, and the girl, vexed with herself, was 
sorry that she had spoken. She had betrayed her feelings 
and apparently she had betrayed them for nothing. But 
in her saner senses she was too prudent to re-open the sub- 
ject or press the matter further; and a truce of platitudes 
reigned between her and her hostess. And the next day, 
with much parade and bustle at the last, with maids and 





THE FLOOD-GATES RAISED 293 


valets and grooms and the rest, the visitors left in a body, 
the two friends parting with the usual kisses and ameni- 
ties—which deceived neither. 

But when the last farewells had been waved from the 
doorway and the knot of servants had dispersed, a stillness 
fell upon the house that gave my lady only too much time 
to think. Maids sauntered from room to room collecting 
linen, the footmen gaped as they counted the plate, the 
men who swept the stable court swept lazily. Mrs. Jem- 
mett sat before her fire, her hands in her lap. Bowles 
yawned over the day before yesterday’s Post. 

And my lady, whether she would or no, pondered. She 
saw my lord dawdle listlessly by the windows, his hands 
in his pockets, and she looked at the clock. It was half- 
past eleven, and Ann rode at twelve. And the day was 
fine, she would be sure to ride. Was my lord lingering 
here for that? Were his thoughts also occupied with that? 
Or what had he in his head? Why, above all and before 
all—it was this which troubled her most—was he staying 
at Queen’s Folly? Why had he dropped no hint of de- 
parture, he, who for the past three years had not spent 
three days at a time alone with her, who hated dullness like 
the devil and had mis-spent his life in the avoidance of 
it? The shooting was over, the hunting was indifferent, 
why—why was he staying? 

Alas! temptations recur and with added strength. To- 
day my lady had no books to check and her work fell from 
her hands. She looked again at the clock; it wanted but 
ten minutes of twelve. And the corridor window was near, 
so near. But no, she would not stoop to play the spy. 
Yet, in justice to him and after what had been said—might 
it not be her duty to assure herself that all was right— 
that in this at any rate that spiteful girl had slandered 
him? How many misunderstandings, how much unhap- 
piness it might avert were she sure! Were she sure! 

And the girl, she reflected. Perhaps she owed it also 
to the girl, owed it to her to expel once and for all that 


204 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


shadowy distrust, that haunting suspicion, that had been 
again and again exorcised, but only and always to re- 
appear. George? True, there was George, but it was all 
on his side, and what assurance did that give of the girl’s 
good behavior? She had been easy, almost light, to win 
in one case—and there was much in that case that my lady 
misliked. She might not have heard all the truth about 
it—even now. 

The clock’s silvery chime told her that it was noon. She 
rose, and sat down again, took up her work and thrust in 
the needle. No, she would not lower herself! To do so 
were to let fall that mask of indifference which she had 
worn so long—so long that it almost deceived herself— 
and which if it had not saved her from pain, had at least 
shielded her from pity. 

No! But with her mind made up, and with the very 
word on her lips she dropped her work, she rose and moved 
towards the door. She paused with her hand on it. It 
was hateful, it was degrading to spy on him. Hateful, 
hateful! But in her own house, with her own dependant! 
For the girl’s sake, for George’s sake, if for nothing else, 
she ought to do it. For why was he stopping? Why was 
he stopping—ah, if she only knew that !—if not for this? 
She ought to know. 

She opened the door and with a firm step she walked 
down the wide corridor, flanked here by an old Bareilly 
trunk or a cedar chest bound with silver, there by a low 
bookcase surmounted by Buddhas and Chinese dragons. 
The servants had no business to be on that floor at that 
hour and there was no one to overlook her. She moved 
slowly yet with a beating heart to the far window. that 
looked on the stable-court. Looking through it, she was 
as one who gazed from a stage box into the pit of a theatre, 
so plain to her was all that passed below. 

She had hardly reached her goal when she stifled an 
exclamation. Not that she saw what she had come to see 
and feared to see. The governess was there, indeed, but 





THE FLOOD-GATES RAISED 295 


in the background. She was standing beside the horse- 
block, somewhat apart, and holding Ann by the hand. 
And she looked frightened. In front of the two and 
nearer the window at which Lady Ellingham stood were a 
number of men, Lord Ellingham, Coker, Tom, three or 
four stablemen. But they too were only spectators. The 
centre of all was Bodmin. He was the performer. He 
was bestriding a pony—a new one the Countess fancied ; 
and the pony was backing and kicking, while its rider 
strove with blows and excited cries to force it towards the 
gateway and so out of the court. 

Alarmed for the boy, Lady Ellingham very nearly gave 
way to her first impulse and betrayed her presence. She 
raised her hand to tap on the window. But she had been 
well trained, she knew that interference would vex my 
lord, and though her fears cried out against the laughing 
indifference with which he watched the struggle, she held 
her hand, albeit with every plunge of the restive pony she 
expected the boy to be unseated. 

But though he was nearly thrown off more than once, 
Bodmin clung to his saddle, and with a boy’s disregard 
of danger continued to strike and spur the pony. And 
presently, with a final kick which tossed its rider on to 
its neck, the beast gave way, dropped its head, and, boring 
and pulling, plunged away through the gateway. The men 
cheered the rider and ran to the entrance to follow his 
course, but quickly came back in a body, laughing and 
talking, and my lady could see that Ellingham was pleased. 
She breathed again and the colour which had ebbed from 
her face—she never had much—returned. 

If she had gone then! But though she now lingered in 
idle curiosity rather than of set purpose, she remained. 
She saw the ladies’ horses led out, she saw Ann mount 
from the block and move about the court curvetting and 
showing off. Then it was Rachel’s turn, and Lady Elling- 
ham frowned as she noticed that my lord would not let 
the governess mount from the block but was bent on 


296 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


putting her up himself. The girl seemed to demur with 
modesty, but he insisted, took her foot, and was evidently 
instructing her how to spring at a signal. The men in 
the background smirked—or was it my lady’s fancy ?—at 
one another. And a moment later—the girl was in the 
saddle now—the watcher caught her breath and stepped 
back with a half-stifled cry of pain. 

This time it was from that which she had feared to 
see and come to see that she recoiled. He was showing 
the girl—shameless thing, sitting there for all to see!— 
how to hold the reins. He took them from her hands, dis- 
entangled them and put them again between her fingers; 
leaning against her knees and the pony’s shoulder as he 
did it. But it was not that, not that alone, intimate as 
the action was and eloquent as it seemed to the Countess, 
that sent a flame of passion, such passion as she thought 
she had long outlived, through Lady Ellingham’s veins. 
It was the laughing upward look that he shot at the girl, 
as he rallied her on her clumsiness, it was the frank boyish 
smile that she had once known so well and that years ago 
had lured her own heart from her, it was that look and 
that smile, now aimed at another, that drove my lady back 
from the window and sent her hand to her-side. 

And—and oh, this was too much! ‘They were leading 
out his horse, and he was going with them! He was going 
with them, he who hardly ever rode with Ann, with his 
own daughter! With jealous eyes the Countess watched 
them pass through the gates, Ann leading, my lord by the 
governess’s side and leaning towards her, handling her 
reins again, giving her another lesson as they paced along. 

She did not stay to reason. ‘To know is one thing, to 
see is another; and on what she had seen the suspicions 
that Charlotte Froyle had insinuated placed, and could 
only place, in a jealous woman’s view, one colour. In a 
moment the barriers that pride and self-respect had raised, 
and that for years had dammed back the flood of feeling, 
gave way, and with a violence proportioned to the stress 


THE FLOOD-GATES RAISED 297 


that she had so long put upon herself, the bitter waters 
flowed forth and carried all away. The cold, sedate 
looker-on whose indifference had seemed monstrous to 
Charlotte became in a twinkling a jealous, raging woman, 
insulted in her home, outraged in her tenderest point, 
tried at last beyond bearing—a fury. With burning cheeks 
and heaving breast she swept back to her room, and there 
behind a locked door paced to and fro, venting in broken 
stormy words the resentment that, whirled her away. 

Even so, habit and pride might in time have restored 
her to herself. Unfortunately jealousy would not let her 
rest, it drove her to action, and by and by she had a natural 
but an unhappy thought. She would see them return. 
She flew to another room, she waited and watched, and 
at last she saw them ride in. And again the children were 
together in front, and my lord was at the girl’s bridle rein. 
He was talking to her, his eyes on her face, bending 
towards her while he rubbed his riding crop across the 
pony’s hogged mane. He pointed to the girl’s stirrup, and 
with his boyish smile said something—something about 
the size of her foot, the suspicious woman fancied. 

The sight and that smile, so gay, so frank, so well- 
remembered—ay, remembered many a time with many a 
pang !—robbed my lady of the last shred of self-mastery. 
When the two came into the hall, and unluckily they came 
in together by the side door, the children lingering behind 
to give sugar to their ponies, she met them, her face colour- 
less, her eyes shining. “That girl must go!’ she said with 
restrained passion. And she pointed an accusing finger at 
the amazed Rachel. “She must go to-day! To-day! She 
shall not stay in this house another night if it be not al- 
ready too late! Shameless, insolent girl, go! Go to your 
room !” 

If my lord did not look guilty, he looked beyond measure 
confounded. “What the devil is this?” he exclaimed. 
While Rachel, stricken dumb, stared in dismay, the colour 
driven from her face by the shock. 


CHAPTER XxXII 
A CLIMAX 


“Wuat the devil is this?” my lord repeated, and now 
there was as much anger as amazement in his tone—anger, 
for here at any rate he was innocent, amazement, for so 
far his worst offences had provoked his wife to no more 
than a cold and haughty disdain, the contempt of one who 
held herself above injury. “Have you gone mad, Kitty?” 

“No,” my lady retorted, “I am sane at last. I see 
things as they are! Iam no longer deceived! Let that 
girl,” and again she raised her hand and pointed to the 
stairs, “that shameless, deceitful girl, take herself out of 
my sight before I sully my lips by saying what she is!” 

“By G—d, but I think you are mad!” my lord repeated. 
“What in heaven’s name has come to you? What has 
happened ?” 

“Happened?” Her voice roseatone. “Have I not eyes 
to see? Am I blind, that you think my patience will last 
for ever? That it has no bottom, no end, sir? Let that 
girl go, and let her not dare to “4 

She broke off. The children had burst, in all the riot 
and fullness of their young life, into the hall. There 
however, and in a moment, they felt the chill, they saw 
that something was wrong, and their voices died down. 
The Countess pointed to the stairs. “Go! Go!” she said, 
and her tone was so stern that even Ann did not venture 
to argue. “You are not wanted here!” she added, and 
stricken dumb, bending to the storm, the two stole silently 
across the room and up the stairs. 

But in one way the interruption served. It gave 

298 





A CLIMAX 299 


Rachel time to collect her senses, and courage to take her 
part. “I do not know, Lady Ellingham, what you mean,” 
she said, her voice quivering with indignation, “nor what 
I have done to offend you. But if I am to under- 
stand ”m 

“Miserable girl!” my lady cried in scorn. “Do not 
bandy words with me! Do not dare! You are dis- 
missed—this hour, this minute! Begone! Pack your 
things and leave the house!” 

“By G—d!” my lord interposed—he was now boiling 
with indignation. “You are mad! You must be mad!” 

But Rachel replied to my lady as if he had not spoken. 
“Then,” she said, outwardly calm, but tingling in every 
nerye, “I must have a reason. I cannot be treated in this 
way. I cannot be sent away, Lady Ellingham, and no 
reason given. No, I will not go,” she continued firmly, 
“on such terms. I have a right——” 

“Right?” Lady Ellingham retorted in an indescribable 
tone. “You? You dare——” And then again there 
was an interruption. It was the luncheon hour; one of 
the men put in his head on his way to the gong. Lady 
Ellingham dismissed him by a gesture, but the break did 
something to restore her to reason. “I will see you in 
the library,” she said haughtily, and she turned and led 
the way into that room. The two followed. My lord 
closed the door. 

“Now, if you please,” he said, before Lady Ellingham 
could speak—and it seemed as if they had changed places, 
for it was he who was now cold and hard—‘“we will have 
the facts. You have spoken to this young lady in such a 
way that nothing else will serve. I will have no more 
beating about the bush. Say at once, if you please, of 
what you accuse her.” 

The Countess’s eyes sparkled with anger. “You ask 
me? You?” she cried. 

“T do,” he returned. “And I must have an answer. It 
is I who in the last instance am responsible for this house, 





300 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


and what happens in it. Of what do you accuse Miss 
South ?” 

There are things which it is difficult to put into words, 
and for a moment words failed the jealous woman. ‘Then, 
“You know very well,” she said. But she was aware that 
she was weakening. 

“That will not do,” he replied—and he looked at her 
in a way that he had never looked at her before. Every 
trace of smiling youth, of easy good-humour, of tacit 
apology was gone from his face, leaving it hard, stern, 
severe. On the heath at Newmarket, perhaps, or over the 
cards at White’s or the Cocoa-Tree men had seen him with 
that face, but his wife never. “You have gone too far to 
be silent now. You must put your accusation into words.” 

Lady Ellingham’s breast rose stormily, but she did not 
refuse the challenge. “She is intriguing with you!” she 
said. “Vilely, wickedly intriguing with you—under my 
roof! I have borne much—you alone know how much I 
have borne and kept silence! To what infidelities I have 
been blind, what insults I have declined to see! But this, 
this’—her voice trembled—“I will not bear! My daugh- 
ter’s governess! In my own house! If I bear this I 
lower myself to the vilest of women. I am a partner in 
my own shame !” 

“There is not a word of truth in it,’ my lord declared, 
so firmly, so coldly, so dispassionately that it shook even 
her conviction. “Not a syllable!” 

“And you would have me believe 

“T would have you believe,” he replied, “what I say.” 

“That you have never—never—” she stammered, her 
voice almost failing her, “‘betrayed me? Never been un- 
faithful to me?” 

“T did not say that. That is not the question here.” 

“Please do not say more!” It was Rachel who inter- 
posed, and her voice was almost as cold and dry as my 
lord’s. “I understand now, and I do not wish to learn 
more, or to defend myself. Lady Ellingham has insulted 


99 





A CLIMAX 301 


me by suspicions—suspicions that are as unjust as they are 
baseless. She has insulted me grossly,” she continued, her 
voice trembling, “and I will certainly go to-day—within 
the hour if it be possible. I should be wrong to stay an 
hour under the protection of one who can think such things 
of me, and can condemn me unheard.” 

But, “No!” my lord said with decision. “You shall not 
go! You have done nothing!” 

“But I must go,’ Rachel insisted with spirit. “I am 
innocent of even the thought of harm, but I cannot, I will 
not remain in a house in which, Lord Ellingham, I am 
open to such charges.” 

“You are the best judge of that,” the Countess retorted. 
She had wonderfully changed her tone, however. She 
spoke almost sullenly. 

“Jam. And I must judge for myself—and protect my- 
self,” and Rachel turned to the door, her head high. But 
she was so shaken that she could hardly walk. 

Lord Ellingham moved as if to intercept her, but ap- 
parently he thought better of it. Instead he opened the 
door, and when she had passed out, he closed it after her. 
He walked to one of the windows and stood looking 
through it, his back to his wife. She remained standing 
beside a table, feverishly tapping its surface with her 
fingers. But the passion had died out of her face, and had 
left it white and weary. For if she did not believe Rachel, 
she had at least begun to doubt. And she saw that, if she 
had made a mistake, then she had made a terrible 
mistake. She had stripped herself of her pride and 
her self-respect and for nothing! She had lost all, all that 
remained to her. It was that thought that was beginning 
to press upon her—that and the silence in the room. 

At last he turned. “You have been guilty,” he said 
calmly but gravely, “of a great, a very great injustice, 
madam. Upon what grounds you have acted, what fancied 
grounds, for real ones there are none, I cannot say. I can- 
not even imagine.” 


302 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


“You have given me enough!” she cried. 

“Not in this case.” 

“But I have seen—I have seen with my own eyes.” 

“What?” 

“T saw you ride out with her, saw you ride back with 
her! Ah!” she added with a gesture of pain, as the re- 
membrance returned to her. “But I have seen enough!” 

“You saw,” he replied sternly, “nothing that was not 
innocent, nothing that a candid mind could misinterpret. 
I will swear to that.” 

“You would have me believe that you have never 
wronged me?” 

“Have I said that?” It was he who was scornful now, 
and though he waited for an answer she did not answer. 
“Have I ever denied that you had wrongs?” he continued. 
“Ts it not for that reason that we live as we do?” 

“And if—” she made a desperate clutch at the scorn 
that had inspired her five minutes before—“‘if with one, 
why not with another? Why have you stayed here? Why 
are you here now? You never stayed before! Why are 
you staying now?” With all her power she drove home 
the question. “What is your attraction? It is not I, 
God knows! Then, is it not plain what it is? Do not 
even the servants see it, and smile and nudge one another 
when you—when you give your riding lessons? Riding 
lessons to your daughter’s governess? Do you think I am 
blind ?” 

“In this matter you are blind,” he rejoined. “And if 
with one why not with another? You have given the rea- 
son yourself, and if you do not see the difference I do. 
This girl is my daughter’s governess. And why do I stay 
here?” For the first time a trace of feeling broke the 
cold severity of his tone. “I will tell you, madam, though 
I had not meant to tell you yet, nor God knows in these 
circumstances. I expected the question, but I intended to 
wait until it was—heaven help me!—more kindly put— 
put to me in some more timely moment! However, it has 


A CLIMAX 303 


been put, and I will answer it. I stayed partly because, 
thought you may hardly credit it, or may not credit it, 
I have grown, if it be but a little, older and wiser. And 
partly because one who is a better man than I has talked 
tome. Ann is growing up and Bodmin will soon be more 
than a boy, and before they learn things, I thought—I 
dreamt perhaps”—he hesitated and stumbled—“that we 
might, if you willed it, and were it only for their sakes— 
place things on a better footing between us! Because a 
man has played the fool—and I was very young, as were 
you, when we married—it is not necessary that he should 
go on playing it. And because he has not always valued 
what he has, it does not follow that when his eyes are 
opened he may not regret what he has lost. Until to- 
day I have always thought that you still preserved some 
feeling for me, and for the children’s sake—I knew you 
were generous i 

“No, weak!” She was still tapping softly on the table, 
she still showed an unchanged front. But there was such 
pain in her averted eyes, such anguish in her heart, so 
terrible a sense of an opportunity, an incredible, unhoped- 
for opportunity lost—lost in this unhappy hour—that had 
he but once met her eyes, she must have broken down. 

But he took her as he saw her, and “Proud, at any rate,” 
he rejoined. “For I have never thought you deceived, 
and I have given you credit for your attitude—and per- 
haps admired it.” He stopped and seemed at a loss. 
Then, “At any rate that is why—I have stayed here. I 
dare say I was a fool.” 

“Or you thought me one!” She longed to alter her 
tone, but she could not, she could not. 

And with that he too grew harder. “In this most un- 
fortunate matter you have been one. You have forgotten 
yourself, and forgotten also that, if I am not a good man— 
and to you I have not been without fault—I have at least 
some scruples.” 

“The fault is yours,” she retorted. She spoke sullenly, 





304 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


moodily, for she could not bend her pride; but in truth she 
was dying to surrender, and if he had observed her closely, 
he would have seen that she was trembling in every limb. 
“It is not your place to teach the governess to ride, to 
handle her reins, to ride beside her, to put her up”—with 
reviving indignation—“with your own hands! It is un- 
becoming, it is unfitting, sir. You cannot deny it.” 

He did not. He was silent, standing grave and thought- 
ful at some distance from her. And when after a pause 
he spoke he surprised her. “Has it ever occurred to you,” 
he said, “that George has some notion of making this girl 
his wife?” 

She was startled. In her jealousy she had forgotten 
that aspect of the case, and, for my lord, she had sup- 
posed him to be ignorant of it. Now it rose before her, 
and pricked her conscience. “Did he tell you so?” she 
asked. 

“No, but he has said enough to make me suspect it. I 
supposed that you might be in his confidence—if you are 
not, and I am mistaken, and certainly I hope that I am, 
for it would be a mésalliance—it alters the position. But 
if it be so, is it so unfitting that she should learn to ride— 
it was your suggestion, was it not? Orso unfitting that I 
should teach her?” 

She passed a hand across her brow, and, alas, reason had 
regained its seat, and wretched, most wretched, she won- 
dered what madness had seized her. How—how had she 
come to forget George, and George’s last request and her 
promise to him to keep the girl with her? But that—oh, 
how small a thing was that! She could have borne that! 
She could have put that right. What she could not bear 
was the thought that she had flung away her long-cherished 
reserve and trampled her pride in the dust—for nothing! 
That she had cast all away in a moment, and with all, her 
happiness! Oh, she had indeed, indeed humbled herself! 
Now, if she would not make the loss final and irreparable, 
if she would clutch even at this last moment at hope, she 


A CLIMAX 305 


must humble herself to the ground. And at length, 
“What do you wish me to do?” she asked. 

But his anger was still hot. He thought her sullen and 
fixed in her injustice. “Nothing!” he said, and the dull 
word rang a knell in her ears, drowning that faint murmur 
of joybells that had for a moment rung in the depths of 
her desolate heart. “I do not wish you to do anything.” 

She forced herself to stoop lower. “If you wish,” she 
said, “I will go to her, and—and ask her to remain.” 

But he would not meet her. “It is for you to do what 
you think right,” he said. 

She winced. “You are hard,” she murmured; and in- 
deed this was a side of him that she had never known. 
With all his faults he had ever been courteous, gentle, 
good-tempered with her. 

“Tt is my house and I am responsible,” he rejoined. “I 
think you have forgotten that. I might order, but I do 
not order. I leave it to you to do what you think is right.” 
He took out his watch—he seemed to say “You have so 
many minutes—I allow you so much—if you do not *: 
His look, his tone, his bearing all were strange to her— 
harsh, compelling. 

She sighed. At last, “I will go to her,” she said. He 
opened the door for her, his watch still in his hand. 

Left alone, he began to walk up and down the room. 
From time to time he stood, took a trifle from a table and 
laid it down again, his thoughts elsewhere. Ten minutes 
passed. The door opened, and Lady Ellingham came in. 

“She will‘not stop,” she said in a dull voice. 

“Have you & 

“T have asked her pardon.” A red spot burned in each 
of my lady’s cheeks. 

He was still stern, unforgiving. “The girl must not 
go,” he said. 

“But I have said all that I ” She broke off. “Very 
well,” she said with lowered eyes. “I will try again.” 
She left the room.’ 











306 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


He returned to his pacing, until the door opened anew. 
“She will remain until to-morrow,” my lady announced in 
a lifeless tone. “She will make some excuse for leaving. 
I can do no more.” 

He rang the bell. “Then we will go to lunch,” he said. 
And she saw that she was still unforgiven. “It is late.” 
He opened the door coldly and formally, and followed her 
out. | 
But, ah, the silence of that meal! It fell drop by drop 
on my lady’s heart, quenching with its chill the trembling 
flame of hope that had sprung up, damping down the tiny 
spark that had begun to glow, leaving all cold, lifeless, 
desolate—more lifeless, more desolate, more hopeless than 
before. The children, warned of trouble, stole to their 
places and stayed their chatter. Even Ann, daunted for 
once, sat humped and on guard, stealing shrewd glances 
from under the penthouse of her black mane and storing 
her mind with reflections which she would retail later. 
“Crikey, but there has been a rumpus!” was the gist of 
them. ‘The men waited with servile care, went to and fro 
soft-footed, while Bowles, standing impassive behind his 
mistress’s chair—but what Bowles thought Mrs. Jemmeit 
learned over a thimbleful of Garland’s port an hour later. 

“T’m afraid it’s serious this time, ma’am,” he said, shak- 
ing his head. “It won’t surprise me if it’s a break-up. 
And to think that two such as you and me, Mrs. Jemmett, 
should be shivering in their places for such a chit as that. 
Oh, woman, woman, what a sight of harm you do!” 

“And here was I,” Mrs. Jemmett returned, “thinking 
all the time as it was the Captain!” 

“A daughter of mischief, ma’am, that’s what she be! 
There’s no other name for her.” 

“And his lordship seemed put out, did he, Bowles?” 

“Tragic, ma’am, tragic! A nether millstone. And her 
ladyship never looked off her plate and ate no more than 
a sparrow. She’s sorted him for once, I wager. I fear, I 
fear itll be a separation this time, Mrs. J.” 


A CLIMAX MN As 


“Well, it’s no more than he’s earned!” the housekeeper 
sighed. “I’d like to sort him myself. As for that 
minx Well?” she asked sharply. “What now?” 

Priscilla had put in her head. “If you please, Mrs. 
Jemmett, can Miss South have some string?” 

“String?” the housekeeper said ungraciously. ‘What 
does she want with string ?” 

“Tf you please, ma’am, she’s packing and 

“Packing?” Very, very nearly did Mrs. Jemmett give 
way to an inferior that a thing was passing in that house 
of which she was ignorant. But she was a woman of re- 
source and she saved herself. “Of course she is! But 
what does she want with string?” she rejoined. 

“She’s broke a strap and a 

Grudgingly the housekeeper gave out the string, and saw 
the door close on the underling. Then, “Wish she may 
hang herself with it!” she said. “Well, she’ve brought her 
pigs to a pretty market! However, you may make your- 
self easy, now. My lady’s won, seemingly.” 

“And I’m thankful,” the butler agreed. “Yet—I know 
it’s weak—but she’d a way with her, that girl. I could 
almost find it in my heart to be sorry for her.” 

“Well, I never, Bowles! And it is but a minute since 
you were calling her a daughter of mischief!” 

The butler sighed. “I couldn’t bear the thought we 
might be parted, ma’am.” 

“It’s news to me we were ever joined!” Mrs. Jemmett 
answered tartly, her colour rising. She looked at the clock 
and bustled to her feet. “There! Ive my work to do, 
if you’ve none. I can’t stay gossiping here all day.” 

“Youre hard, ma’am, hard,”’ Bowles pleaded. 

“T suppose I’ve not a way with me!” said Mrs. Jemmett. 





9? 








GHAPTER' XX XTIT 
IN THE STABLE-COURT 


RACHEL did not doubt that she was wise to go. She might 
have made out a case for staying; she might have argued 
with some plausibility that in resisting my lady’s over- 
tures to remain she was yielding to a resentment natural 
but short-sighted. And doubtless that was the hght in 
which Lady Ellingham viewed her decision. But Rachel 
knew better, and though she had plenty of leisure in which 
to weigh the matter, she never doubted what course it be- 
hoved her to take. 

But she did regret, and very sorely, the necessity that 
was laid upon her. The schoolroom which had once 
seemed so bare and unhomelike now stretched friendly 
arms to her. The shabby old globe and the inkstained 
table which she had often eyed with distaste now seemed to 
be things which she could not leave without pain. It was 
a harbour of refuge that she was quitting, dear if dull, and 
if lonely, safe; and she asked herself for what she was ex- 
changing it. If she would not be a burden on her mother’s 
slender resources she must at once find another situation; 
and, that found, she must face the chill of new surround- © 
ings, the reluctant welcome, the curious looks of strangers. 
That would be, that must be, her fate if she went. 

It was all loss, though she was determined to go, and 
did not falter. But amid her regrets that which rose up 
at once most bitter and most sweet was the thought of 
one who, she felt sure, had he been at the Folly, would not 
have let her suffer injustice. He had helped her in worse 
straits, and he would have helped her in this strait. Of 

308 


IN THE STABLE-COURT 309 


that she was certain, not asking herself what he could have 
done more than my lord had done, or how he would have 
intervened; but simply and blindly assured that before 
him all difficulties would have vanished and that in some 
way he would have served her and saved her. 

But that certainty was in very truth the thing that de- 
termined Rachel. She was no longer the simple girl that 
she had been, and she understood what this feeling meant ; 
and the discovery, late-made, frightened as much as it 
shamed her. It was not only that between her and her 
benefactor, between her and his people, there gaped a wide 
gulf, sloping indeed on his side but a fatal precipice on 
hers—that peril Lady Ellingham had made abundantly 
clear to her; but between her and him there lay also her 
past weakness, her stupendous folly, her whole history since 
he had known her—memories and a history that burned 
her face with shame. To lose her heart, to misplace her 
affections, twice in a twelvemonth! Oh, it was indeed 
time, it was indeed well that she should go and learn wis- 
dom in another sphere. 

For dimly, yet with a true instinct, Rachel saw that if 
she stayed, unhappiness worse than that which she now 
suffered awaited her. And this, though she was even now 
very wretched, very sad, as she sat with her few possessions 
packed and the schoolroom’s friendly face making dumb 
appeal to her. And Ann’s farewell, the child’s naive “Oh, 
you silly old thing, why do you go?” even her impulsive 
hug, though it meant much from Ann, whose nature, hard 
as nails, made any show of affection a tribute, was too 
casual, too careless to bring comfort to a heart that hun- 
gered for some warmer, some more human farewell. 

“But I am only the governess!” she thought. “And— 
and no one cares now he is gone! In a month there will 
be another, and I shall be forgotten !” 

And she had still an hour to wait. She was leaving an 
hour before noon. 

In truth, however, the girl was filling a far larger place 


310 QUEEN'S FOLLY 


in the thoughts of the house than she imagined. Hidden 
away in her solitude she was troubling the peace of two 
persons. My lord would in any case have found it difficult 
to ignore one who had worked up so tragic a crisis between 
him and his wife; but he was further oppressed by the 
sense that the girl was being wronged. He was young 
enough and, to do him justice, generous enough to be 
heated by this; and his indignation—for no man resents 
a baseless accusation so fiercely as he who has been guilty 
elsewhere—was not lessened by the fact that the sufferer 
was a woman and young. He was still far from forgiving 
his wife; even a night had not cooled him to that point, 
and having taken breakfast in forbidding silence he had 
wandered forth to pervade the stables, finding fault where 
no fault was, and a terror to grooms and stablemen. No 
horse was to-day shod to his liking, the chestnut was too 
fine, Medea’s legs should have been bandaged, the bay’s 
hocks were as big as bedposts, the oats were d—d rubbish! 
Even Coker, usually master in his own domain, wilted be- 
fore him. He wandered in and out, a circling thunder- 
cloud, and all who could escape slid round corners. 
Bodmin, approaching in an unwary hour, was styled a 
d—d untidy young cub and sent back to the house to 
button his gaiters. 

But if my lord was restless and moody, his discontent 
having its source deeper than the governess’s matter, 
though he laid it on that, my lady was still more unhappy. 
For she knew what she wanted. She knew what hope had 
in a most unlooked-for hour sprung up from the barren 
soil, and she knew by what act of folly, of incredible folly, 
she had nipped the shoot! 

She paced her room with parted lips and heaving breast, 
and found no rest. Her pride all fallen from her, she 
would have torn her tender flesh if by so doing she could 
have undone her act. If she had thought that by a fur- 
ther abasement, however humilating, she could move that 
stubborn girl upstairs, who had in a moment of time grown 


IN THE STABLE-COURT 213 


into so formidable, so fatal an obstacle, she would not have 
spared herself. But she had taken Rachel’s measure, she 
was certain that prayer would be vain, and she could only 
hope—but with a sinking, anguished heart—that when 
the girl was gone the breach, this new breach, might be 
healed. 

Might be healed? Ah, but how little satisfying was 
hope, when but for her own imbecility, her own mad act— 
in that light she saw it now!—she might at this moment 
have been happy, safe, assured, blest in the repentant ten- 
derness, the returning passion of one who had been her 
maiden choice, and whom she had never ceased to love, 
even when he had been least faithful! For he had never 
been as so many others in his case. He had never been 
harsh, brutal, ungenerous, even in his infidelities. He 
had only been unfaithful; stabbing her to the heart indeed, 
and torturing that tender bosom, but never erasing from 
it the image of her first love. And how many, how. many 
had tempted him! Wicked, wicked women! Theirs, 
theirs had been nine-tenths of the blame! 

She paced the room torn by doubts, racked by fears, 
measuring his displeasure—and with all his faults he had 
never in the past shown displeasure to her. Rather had 
his bearing been that of one who owning himself in 
fault, owning her perfection, pleaded only the force of 
circumstances and his own weakness. How intolerable, 
then, if at this crisis, when his better angel and his sober 
years prevailed, she had wrecked all! 

Her fevered eyes fell on the clock. It wanted twenty 
minutes of eleven. In twenty minutes it would be too 
late to do anything. Should she after all make one last 
appeal to that wretched, hard-hearted girl—who held her 
fate in her hands? Or should she consult him of whom 
she had in a moment grown afraid? At the worst she 
might prove to him that she was anxious to comply with 
his wishes, that the fault did not he with her. He had 
willed that she should humble herself, and she had done 


312 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


it, and the tacit order had been dear to her. She pon- 
dered, and at last she rang the bell. 

“When does Miss South start ?” 

“At eleven, my lady.” 

“From the side-door ?” 

“No, my lady, from the stable-court.” 

“Where is his lordship ?” 

“He was in the stables, but I believe he is at the front 
now.” 

She dismissed the man and went to her room; and 
anxiously before the mirror she twitched a curl this way, 
straightened a ribbon—this was no time, ah, no time to 
neglect herself! Then she snatched up a cloak and hat 
and traversed the passage and stairs to the great doors. 
Yes, there was the Harl, standing near the entrance gates, 
sombrely switching at the gravel with his cane. A few 
paces from him Ann was playing with a dog. My lady 
saw that she was in time, and with a quickly beating heart 
she went to him. 

“Tf you wish it,” she said with a new and touching hu- 
mility, “I will speak to Miss South again, and beg her 
to stay. I do not think I shall succeed. I have said al- 
ready all that it is possible to say. But I will try—if it 
is your pleasure.” 

“Well—try then!” he said gloomily. “But wait a min- 
ute. ‘There’s the boy coming out.” 

He signed to her to stand aside as Bodmin rode out of 
the stable-court. He was on the new pony and he waved 
his hand gaily to them as he passed. The cob was fresh, 
and bored and pulled at the bit, its stout haunches gathered 
under it, its eye wicked. But the boy, proud of his new 
mount, and delighted with the chance of showing off be- 
fore them, went by laughing and slapping his gaiter with 
his whip to prove his confidence. 

My lady was not sorry to find an indifferent subject, and — 
with a show of more anxiety than she felt, “Is that pony 
safe?” she asked. 


IN THE STABLE-COURT 313 


But my lord was not to be propitiated. “Safe? Good 
lord, yes!” he said. “A bit fresh.” 

“But should not some one”’—she spoke timidly, for, alas, 
she was beginning to fear him!—“go with him?” 

“Rubbish! The boy’s not a molly-coddle!” And his 
eye followed his heir with pride. 

They watched the two sidle away along the turf beside 
the drive, the figures of horse and boy dwarfed by the 
walls of lofty trees that flanked the glade. Then they 
turned. My lord looked at his watch. “You had better 
meet her in the court,” he said. “If you go through the 
house, you will miss her.” 

The stable clock struck as he spoke. From where they 
stood, near the outer gates, they could look through the 
inner gateway into the stable-court and could see drawn 
up at a side-door the carriage that awaited the governess. 
It was the hour of the servants’ “elevens,”’ and the men 
had gone in to their snack. There was no one in the court 
except the driver of the carriage, sitting on his box and 
now and again stroking one of the horses with the tail of 
his whip. _ 

My lady moved towards the court. “You'll have to be 
quick,” my lord called after her. “She’s coming out, I 
think.” 

Lady Ellingham hastened her steps, and had covered a 
dozen yards or so when a gun-shot rang out, fired appar- 
ently at some distance. It was too common a sound at the 
Folly to alarm, and my lady did not turn. But before 
she had taken a second ten steps—though she walked 
quickly, in fear lest the chaise should move away—there 
came to her ears another sound, sharp and insistent—an 
ominous sound to experienced ears. It was the rattle of 
galloping hoofs on a hard road, and my lady turned, and 
instinctively looked back—in misgiving. The next mo- 
ment my lord’s voice rose. “Damnation!” he exclaimed. 
“That pony’s off!” In a dozen strides he was beside my 
lady. “Take care!” he exclaimed and pushed her to the 


314 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


side, and even in that moment of alarm she recognised that 
his first thought was for her. “Look out, Kitty! He’s 
coming this way—ah!” The last word was pitched in a 
different key, and of itself would have striken her with 
terror, if she had had no eyes to see. 

But she could see. The cob was coming towards them, 
hurtling down the drive at the top of its speed, its head 
between its knees. It was completely out of control and 
running away, making blindly for its stable. The boy 
was sitting it bravely, leaning back and dragging with all 
his small strength at the shortened reins, but to no pur- 
pose. And then, and almost in the same moment the 
two—the poor mother as quickly as my lord—discerned the 
deadly peril that awaited their child. The stable-door— 
their thoughts instinctively shot to it, for it was full in 
their sight, and scarce forty yards away—was open, and 
it was low in the brow—too low for the rider to pass 
through it, if the cob pursued its reckless course. And 
even as the peril declared itself, it was upon them. The 
pony thundered through the gates beside them, my lord 
with a stifled cry rushed to head it off. He was yards too 
late. The cob swerved, and passed him. It made at the 
same frenzied pace for the stable-gateway. It swept 
through it in a flash. 

“Throw yourself off!’ my lord shouted. “Throw your- 
self off 1” 

But whether the boy heard the words or not—and the 
clatter of the galloping hoofs may have deafened him— 
he did not act, and the only person who could act, the man 
on the chaise, was hard put to it to control his horses, and 
had not the quickness of wit to switch them across the 
frightened animal’s path. Probably if he had had the 
thought, the notice was too short, for the court was crossed 
in a second or two. My lord uttered a strangled cry, my 
lady hid her face. 

And then, with the gaping doorway no more than four 


IN THE STABLE-COURT 315 


or five lengths ahead of the runaway, a little slender figure 
sprang from behind the chaise, flung itself, as it seemed 
to my lord, full in the cob’s way, caught, heaven knew how, 
some impossible rein, and in the tenth part of a second 
all, horse, boy and that little figure, came slithering and 
crashing to the ground and rolled to the base of the wall 
in a ghastly medley of upturned girths and gleaming irons. 

Such a sight on the kindly greensward or the gentle 
plough—who has not seen it with a qualm and held his 
breath? But on the hard ground of the court, with the 
merciless walls of the stables but a pace away! My lord 
ran, his face white as a woman’s. My lady heard, looked, 
and shuddered. In a strength not her own she staggered 
after him. “Now God have mercy on us,” she whispered, 
and repeated it again and again. 

Even before my lord arrived the men were out, a dozen 
of them, clustering like bees about the fallen; and before 
the clatter of hoofs and the thunder of the crash had 
ceased to echo from the walls they had flung themselves 
upon the writhing heap, secured the kicking pony by main 
force, and with nervous arms were dragging two forms 
clear. One, one, alas, lay senseless and motionless in their 
arms. The other tottered free, and white-faced, supported 
by the wall, “Oh, was I wrong?” Rachel wailed, looking 
round on the men with terrified eyes. “Have I killed him? 
Was I wrong?” 

One man only had a thought to spare for her. One 
voice—it was Coker’s—answered her. “No, you were 
d—d right!” he said huskily. ‘“He’d ha’ been smashed 
like an egg ’gainst that lintel!” Then, “Don’t take on, 
my lord,” he continued. “Don’t take on! He’s alive! 
I’ll swear he’s alive!”’ he repeated desperately—for he did 
not believe it. 

Men, women, all, summoned by the sound of the fall, 
were crowding round now; some hysterical, some mute 
and aghast, one here and there peering fearfully over an- 


316 QUEEN'S FOLLY 


other’s shoulder. Only Bowles remembered my lady and 
started to meet her. But his aid was not needed. In a 
moment she was among them, dry-eyed and quiet, and the 
roughest men made way for her. 

Coker lifted the lad, but, “Tl carry him,” my lord said 
jealously, and took the light form from his arms. He 
stroked back the hair that had fallen over the forehead, 
and gave a long look at the pale, blood-stained face. He 
turned to the house-door. 

But on the threshold he gave a curt order, and the 
chaise, the scared horses flogged to a canter, bounded from 
the yard to fetch the Ringwood apothecary. Another 
order, as brief, and a man flew to the stables to saddle a 
hunter and gallop to Salisbury—there was no surgeon 
nearer. 

My lady clutched her husband’s sleeve as if she would 
never let it go, and together, with the boy’s head drooping 
lifeless from his shoulder, they threaded the passages and 
climbed the stairs. Mrs. Jemmett panted before them, 
and opened a door, then unbidden hastened for sponges and 
water. My lord laid the small form—oh, so small it 
seemed now—on the bed, and with shaking fingers began 
to loosen the little stock and put off the blood-stained 
clothes, while my lady, watching with hungry eyes for the 
flutter of an eyelid, wiped the blood from the face that lay 
so white on the pillow, so much more like to death than 
life. Mrs. Jemmett held the bowl, while Felix, my lord’s 
valet, gently insinuating himself, brought defter hands to 
the task of undressing. About the half-open door hung a 
score of terrified servants, those for the most part who had 
no business there. They augured the worst, and some 
sobbed noisily. They whispered that the boy was dead. 

But he was not dead—yet. The heart still beat— 
faintly, but it beat. My lord had assured himself of that, 
and presently, when all had been done that they dared to 
do, he signed to the servants to go, and he and my lady 
were left alone, standing together beside the bed. With 


IN THE STABLE-COURT 317 


one prayer in their hearts and woe in their eyes they 
looked at one another. He opened his arms, and without 
a word, in the hush that lay on the great house stricken by 
calamity, she fell into them, and felt the heart that suf- 
fered with her beat against hers. And tears came to her 
relief. 


CHAPTRR XX XTV 
SUSPENSE 


In the confusion Rachel was overlooked, yet not entirely. 
Some hand of housemaid or kitchenmaid helped her to 
her room, brought hot water and aided her to wash, soothed 
the hysterical excitement that now that the danger was 
past prostrated her. Nor was it unnatural that the girl 
should be overlooked for a time, or should meet at the 
first with less care than she deserved, for only the Harl 
and the man on the carriage—and Coker or another from 
a window—had witnessed the part that she had played. 
And though the truth soon became known, and was 
spread by many tongues, it was at first believed that the 
runaway had knocked down the governess as she stepped 
into the chaise. 

For a time she could only cry in an agony of doubt, “Oh, 
if I have killed him! If I have killed him!” and live over 
again the dreadful moment when they had all been hurled 
to the ground. And the maid, scared by her hysterical 
fit and ignorant of the facts, could only do her best, with 
such words as came to her, to comfort her. “’Twas no 
fault of yours, miss! You couldn’t help it!” she babbled. 
“Nobody can blame you, miss.” 

“Oh, but his mother! His mother!” Rachel wailed. 
“What will his mother say? fPlease, please,” as she grew 
a little more composed, “go and ask if he is alive. And 
eome and tell me. Promise you will come and tell me,” 
she insisted, clinging to the girl’s sleeve. “Ah,” and she 
gave way to a fresh burst of grief, “if he is dead!” 

The maid did not understand where the trouble lay, but 

318 


SUSPENSE 319 


she promised, and glad to be nearer the centre of excite- 
ment and to satisfy her own curiosity, she hastened away 
on her errand; while Rachel, though she ached in every 
limb, paced the floor in dreadful suspense. The thing 
that her brave heart had inspired her to do, now seemed 
to her the most dreadful mistake, the origin of all the 
evil. And if the consequences were to be fatal? An- 
guished by the thought, she cast herself on her knees and 
hid her face on the bed—oh, that he might live! That he 
might live! That she might be spared this at least! 

She was still on her knees, gripping the coverlet, with 
her face buried deep in it, when the door opened. The 
sound did not reach her, and for a moment the Countess 
gazed at the little prostrate form, her own face working 
convulsively. Then, “Miss South! Miss South!” she 
whispered. 

Low as the accents were, Rachel heard them, and sprang 
to her feet. She turned and saw, and “Oh!” she cried, 
and raised her hands as if she would ward off the mother. 
“Is he—is he ?” she could not continue, but her 
pleading eyes spoke for her. 

“He lives,” the Countess murmured through her tears, 
and the next moment—Rachel never knew how or who 
made the first advance—the two were in one another’s 
arms, and my lady was holding the girl to her, soothing 
her, stroking her hair, pouring out broken words of grati- 
tude. “There is hope, good hope,” she murmured. “He 
lives, and through you. Through you! Oh, we should 
go on our knees to you! My dear, forgive me! Forgive 
me !” 

Rachel could not answer in words. She could only weep 
in a transport of thankfulness. At last, “I was afraid,” 
she stammered. “Oh, I was afraid that I had killed him!” 

“You saved him! Our boy! They all say that it was 
the only chance. And there is good hope, thank God! 
It was He sent you to us and set you there and gave 
you the courage! My dear, my dear, what shall we say 





320 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


to you?” And they wept in one another’s arms, two 
women brought together at last by a common feeling, set 
on one level, meeting on the one ground of their woman~- 
hood. 

But life even in such moments does not stand still. 
Someone knocked. “If you please, my lady, the doctor 
is here.” 

The Countess dried her tears and put Rachel in a chair. 
“Come in,” she said. 

The apothecary entered, burly, smiling, at home—it was 
his hour also, for him too rank had for the time ceased to 
eount. ‘So this—this is the heroine, is it?” he said cheer- 
fully. “Well, what’s amiss? Let me feel your pulse, 
young lady. Umph! Spir. Am.,I see. Just walk across 
the room, my dear. Good! Nothing to alarm your lady- 
ship. No harm done.” 

As he mixed a dose the mother glided from the room 
and Rachel’s eyes sought his and asked a question. ‘“Un- 
conscious,” he pronounced, “and will be for some hours. 
Result of concussion—natural result. No fracture, my 
dear, and every hope. Dr. Stephens will be here in an 
hour or so, but there is only one treatment—to keep the 
patient quiet and trust to nature. He may lie like that 
for twenty-four hours and no harm done.” 

And presently Rachel also was left to nature, and in her 
bed was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. And on the 
great house that for an hour or two had pulsed with life, 
with raised voices and hurrying feet, fell the stillness of 
suspense. For though the physician bore out the apoth- 
ecary’s view—with such reservations as befitted his sta- 
tion—the boy lay through the long hours of the afternoon 
and gave no sign of life. My lord paced the library, and 
each hour ascended to inquire or to murmur a word of en- 
couragement to his wife; while she, hidden by the curtains 
of the bed, sat untiring, devouring with hungry eyes the 
still face that lay so deathlike on the pillow, the form that 
looked so pitifully small in the wide bed. 


SUSPENSE 321 


For a time the knowledge that he lived and that there 
was hope had sufficed. But with every hour of waiting 
fear grew and increased. The servants, ever inclined to 
the darker view, shook their heads and whispered gloomily ; 
and when sunset came the twilight found a change. It 
found the library deserted, and my lord softly pacing the 
bedroom or standing silent by the bed, my lady’s hand in 
his. Hope that had flamed high at noon fluttered low 
in the dusk, and only the burly apothecary and the 
physician—and he with growing caution—still fanned it 
and kept it alight. The watchers’ fears already pictured 
the end. The little heart that beat so feebly might so 
easily cease to beat. 

- But as the tall clock in the hall, where the lamps shone 
on empty grandeur, struck nine, a breath, a quiver ran 
through the passages, ran through the house, reached in a 
twinkling the farthest purlieu where stable-lads bedded 
their horses, or scullery-maids wept over the sink. He 
had spoken! He had spoken! The house stirred and 
stretched itself. Bowles swore in his pantry and blew his 
nose. Mrs. Jemmett dried her eyes and reached for the 
tea-pot. A footman deliberately dropped a plate, and 
after kicking the fragments far and wide fell to fisticuffs 
with his fellow. And my lord, coming hurriedly out of 
the bedroom, fell over Rachel, who should have been still 
in bed, wrung her hand as if he would never let it go, 
and went by her speechless) And Ann—Ann who had 
crouched on the stairs for hours, tearless and silent, 
solemnly burned her favourite doll in the dining-room 
fire—a rite the secret of which was known only to her- 
self. 


The crises of life pass and to pathos succeeds bathos. 
The water swirls above the depths, it slides on, and ripples 
over the shallows. A casual eye turned on the party as- 
sembled at the breakfast table ten days later would have 


322 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


noted little change though so much had happened. Ann, 
turbulently demanding butter with her jam, Bodmin 
dragging her back by the hair as she made a long arm for 
it, Rachel timidly interposing with an eye to the ruling 
powers, my lord exclaiming, “For God’s sake, Miss South, 
give her the butter and whip her afterwards!” my lady 
silent and absent, with a crease of pain between her eyes— 
all seemed to be as it had been. 

In Rachel, least of all, did any change appear. She bent 
her smooth head over her plate, and her interference with 
the children was if anything more diffident. But Bowles, 
bearing in the letter-bag—and with an important face, for 
the postman had told him what was in it—knew that here 
was a change and that the little governess whom he had 
dubbed a daughter of mischief now sat in honour, not the 
less because it was slightly marked. 

Lord Ellingham opened the bag and spread out the let- 
ters. “Hallo! MHere’s a Gazette!” he exclaimed, and he 
selected the paper from the mass and tore it open, while 
Bowles in the act of leaving the room took the liberty of 
pausing to hear the news. “Yes, by Gad, news at last,” 
my lord continued. “Eh? Oh, here it is!” as the others 
turned anxious faces to him. “D’you hear, my lady? 
‘London, in Copenhagen Roads’—yes, this is it. ‘Admiral 
Sir Hyde Parker is pleased to report-—umph! I see.” 
He read in silence, his eyes travelling rapidly down the 
paper. ) 

My lady could bear the suspense no longer. “Is he 
safe?” she asked. “Fred! Tell us! Don’t keep us wait- 
ing !” 

“George? Blest if I know!” he answered. “I can’t 
make out anything. He reports, reports—oh, I see. Begs 
to refer their lordships to Lord Nelson’s despatch—there, 
Nelson again, d—d if the man don’t always come to the 
top—tfor the issue of the action. Yes, all right!” His 
voice rose sharply and betrayed his relief. ‘“He’s all 
right, Kitty! ‘Reports with deepest concern the loss of 


SUSPENSE 323 


Captains Mosse and Riou’—so George is all right! Hur- 
rah !” 

“Hurrah !” Bodmin waved arms and legs and knocked 
down a plate. 

My lady’s relief showed itself in a different fashion. 
“Thank God!” she said softly. And having risen to her 
feet in her excitement, she sat down again. “Thank God!’ 
she repeated, and she looked at Rachel. But Rachel was 
bending over Ann’s hair-ribbon, assiduously re-tying it; 
and had not my lady marked with a woman’s eye the 
trembling fingers that fumbled over the task she might 
have been deceived. 

“Yes, well done, George,” Lord Ellingham commented. 
“Lucky chap, isn’t he? Seems to have been a devilish 
hot business! Ah, here’s Lord Nelson’s story at last. 
‘Elephant off Copenhagen. In obedience to your direc- 
tions to report the proceedings of the squadron named in 
the margin’—Lord, the man might be reporting on so 
many firkins of lard! Good! Good!’ His eyes ran on 
as he read to himself. “But how long-winded these heroes 
are! Ah! here we have it! ‘Sank, burned and took 
seventeen sail of the line-—gad, what a butcher he is!— 
‘being the whole of the Danish fleet south of the Crown 
battery—wonder he left any to the north of it, must 
have been on his blind side, I suppose! ‘Irreparable loss 
of gallant and good Captain Riou. Acknowledge debt to 
every Captain, Officer, and Man for their zeal and dis- 
tinguished bravery on this occasion. With sorrow com- 
pelled to place the name of Captain Mosse also on the list 
of killed, and among the severely wounded. my ht: 
stopped abruptly, staring at the paper. 

My lady rose, her eyes wide. ‘“Not—not George?” she 
gasped. 

“T’m afraid he’s hit,” my lord said slowly. 

Her hands clattered helplessly among the cups and 
saucers. “What—what does it say?” she muttered. “Tell 
us, quick !” 





324 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


“Come, he’s not killed, my dear.” 

“Read it! Read it! For heaven’s sake, let us know 
the worst!” 

“Well, he’s badly hit, I’m afraid,” my lord owned re- 
luctantly, looking up at her and then down at the paper. 
“And among the severely wounded the name of Captain 
Dunstan of the Polyphemus, who showed’ ”—his voice 
shook a little—“ ‘a noble example of intrepidity and devo- 
tion to duty.’ ” 

The words of praise were too much for my lady’s self- 
possession. She sat down and burst into tears, covering 
her face. 

Bowles had garnered the news and fled to spread it, 
and my lord looked helplessly at the awed children, then 
at their governess. “Will you get her a glass of water, 
Miss South?” he said. 

Rachel had taken herself in a hard grip—what after 
all was he to her?—and she rose and hurried for the 
water. She dared not pause, for the words “severely 
wounded” had stamped themselves on her brain, and if 
she stayed even for a moment to think of him suffering 
and in pain she knew that she would betray her foolish- 
ness. With a steady hand she brought in the glass, glue- 
ing her eyes to the margin that she might carry it steadily, 
her every faculty centred on that one thing. My lord 
had moved to his wife’s side and was leaning over her. 
“There, there,” he said, as he took the water, “at will 
be all right. Cheer up, my dear. You know George 
is as hard as nails and it will take a lot to knock him 
over. We shall have him here in a week, and will 
soon nurse him up again. You'll see it will be all 
right.” | 

“Will they make him an Admiral, father?’ Bodmin 
asked. He at any rate was ready to look on the bright 
side. 

“Tn his turn, my son.” 

My lady looked up with a faint smile. “I’m very fool- 


SUSPENSE 325 


ish,” she said. ‘“‘We’ll—we’ll all hope for the best, chil- 
dren. But”’—she looked round her with a startled face 
as if she had suddenly remembered something—“where 
is Miss South?” 

“She went out,’ Ann answered. “I suppose she saw 
that she wasn’t wanted.” Her tone proclaimed a griev- 
ance, for strange to say Ann had become her governess’s 
champion. 

The two elders exchanged glances. “Well, you’re not 
wanted either,” my lord said. “So off you go, children. 
Your uncle will be all right.” 

They went pretty readily—they too liked to spread the 
news—and when the door had closed behind them, ‘‘Well, 
there’s no harm done there,” my lord said with meaning. 
“Didn’t turn a hair, that young lady! And a good job 
too, only if George is in earnest I shall be sorry if she 
takes him for other reasons and don’t care for him. I 
forgot about her in thinking of you, and she was as cool as 
this glass.” 

~My lady smiled through her tears. “She cares,” she 
said. 

“Does she, begad? Well, I saw no sign of it.” 

“You wouldn’t,’” my lady rejoined, speaking out of her 
superior wisdom. “I am going to her presently.” 

“But—you won’t say anything, Kitty?” 

“To commit George?” My lady wondered at man’s 
obtuseness. “Heaven forbid! He may have changed his 
mind. Men do,” she added, her lip trembling. 

My lord, still on his feet, cut himself a morsel from 
the loaf and ate it slowly. “Not George,” he said. “He's 
not of that sort. But I’m afraid he has his troubles be- 
fore him.” 

My lady was silent. 

He looked hard at the loaf as if he doubted about 
another slice. It was home-made bread, and of it toast 
was made such as is unknown to-day. “Yes, I am afraid 
he has,” he mumbled. “Mine are behind me. I made 


326 QUEEN'S FOLLY 


"em myself, but anyway they are behind me. Do you 
believe me, Kitty?” 

“He hoped so,’ she murmured unsteadily. “But I 
don’t know that he believed it.” 

“It doesn’t matter what he believed,’ my lord said 
doggedly. “It was the last thing he said to me—if he 
doesn’t come back. Only he didn’t call them troubles, 
he called them by a harder word—he was never mealy- 
mouthed, George, God bless him! However, it is not 
‘what he hoped or what he believed that matters. It is 
what you believe.” 

My lady looked straight before her down the table. She 
did not speak and apparently she was not moved. But 
hidden in her lap under the edge of the table her hands 
were gripping one another so fiercely that the nails were 
red. 

“You’ve got a good many things to forgive,’ my lord 
continued, with his eyes still fixed on the loaf. “And 
perhaps you cannot, and I don’t blame you. I never have 
blamed you in thought—no, nor in word, you’ll do me 
that justice. Indeed, I’ve thought a great deal of how 
you have taken it, Kitty—till just the other day—and 
I have admired you. I would not have had it otherwise. 
And he that will not when he may—I know all that. But 
there are the children. They are growing up and will 
soon know. And what you cannot do for me, you may 
be able to do for them.” 

“No!” my lady said. 

He winced. “I don’t know quite what you mean by 
that,” he answered. “But I do know this, and Ill be quite 
plain. If you can’t forgive freely and fully—and I know 
it’s hard, but it’s best to be frank—it’s no use. T’m no 
saint, as you know very well. I’m a man at any rate and 
it must be all or nothing. You understand that?” 

“Yes, I understand.” 

“Tt was George’s wish.” 

“T understand that too,’ she said. “He spoke to me 


99 


SUSPENSE 327 


too. He has been my best, my only friend, the truest, 
staunchest friend. But I wouldn’t do it for that and L 
will not. No! No!” She repeated the word firmly. 
“Neither for George nor for the children—do you think 
I have no pride, no respect for myself, that I can for- 
get”’—she shivered—“‘so easily? So lightly? No. I will 
keep up appearances for the children’s sakes. I will con- 
tinue to do that as I have done it. But no more, even 
for his sake.” 

He stared moodily at the loaf. After an unhappy 
pause, “Kitty,” he said, “I thought—I hoped that you 
were kinder.” 

“No!” she retorted sharply. “You mean that you 
thought I was weaker. But there is a little pride, a little 
self-respect left to me still, though God knows that it 
has been dragged in the dust. I will sit at your table 
and entertain your guests. I will make no stir, and I will 
do my duty if I have strength enough, as I see it. But” 
—she turned her face to him, and for the first time she 
looked at him—‘for forgiveness complete and _ perfect, 
Fred, there is only one price. I will not prostitute my- 
self. JI will only be my husband’s wife, if he loves me.” 

“God bless you, Kitty!” he cried. He held out his arms 
to her and fairly broke down. 

But she drew back. “Are you sure? Are you quite 
sure, Fred? For God’s sake,” she said, and her voice 
trembled, “do not deceive me and yourself. It is for 
always. You know—you know there can be no second 
time.” | 

Then it seemed that she saw what she wished to see in 
his face, for a moment later, “God bless you, Kitty!’ he 
repeated. “You are too good for me.” 

“God bless George, sir!’ she replied, blushing like a girl, 
as she patted her hair into place. Her eyes were shining. 

“Shall I promise you again?” 

“No,” she said, smiling through her tears. “It is all 
in that—if you love me and want me.” 


OHAPTHR (XX XV) 
THe Berrer Part oF COURAGE 


AN hour later Lady Ellingham went slowly up the stairs. 
The sunbeams entering by a window on the landing shone 
athwart the sloping line of ancestors, full-length and in 
heavy gilt frames, that gave to the wide stairway its 
stately, sombre air. She passed upward beneath one after 
another—the beauty leaning on an urn who had waited 
on Queen Caroline and shared her painful secrets, the 
Dunstan with the secretive face who had been minister 
and all but sovereign at Naples, the soldier in the flowing 
Steinkerke who waved a futile sword against a background 
of smoke. There had been days, many days, when they 
had seemed to frown on her. 

But to-day they smiled. At the window on the land- 
ing she stood and looked out, savouring with moist eyes 
the possession and the consciousness of happiness; and all 
the tall waving forest without, all the world of trees that 
had for months closed their buds against winter’s nip, 
waved a welcome, greeting with bursting leaves the sun- 
shine and the birds’ carols that found an echo in her full 
heart. 

But her errand lay higher, and tearing herself away she 
passed up by barer stairs and narrower ways—decked, 
these, with Italian prints, faded and damp-stained, in 
maple frames; the Forum at Rome, the Mole of Hadrian, 
a Lucretia with the dagger in her bosom. She passed 
through the swing door that squeaked, she reached the 
governess’s room. She would fain have all happy this 
blissful day. She knocked. 

“Miss South?” 

328 


THE BETTER PART OF COURAGE 329 


“Oh!” in a startled tone. A bed creaked, but no move- 
ment towards the door declared itself. 

My lady drew her conclusions. “I’ve come to tell you 
that there is better news, Miss South,’ she announced. 
“There was a letter in the bag—Lord Ellingham found 
it later—from Captain Otway who brought over the 
despatches. Captain Dunstan has lost his arm, but he is 
doing well and is believed to be out of danger.” 

An exclamation, an inarticulate word! 

“He will be with us in a week or ten days. Don’t 
trouble, my dear,” for now there was a reluctant move- 
ment within, “to come out. We thought that you would 
like to know.” 

Without waiting for more, Lady Ellingham turned 
and went through the swing-door and down the stairs. 
“There,” she thought, but not without a pang, for she 
was a woman, “George cannot say that I have not played 
him fair. I see it is to be, but it is a pity after all.” 

Lord Ellingham was waiting for her in the hall, and her 
cheek bloomed and her eyes fell as she turned the carved 
newel-post and saw him. ‘‘Well?” he asked eagerly. 
“What did she say, Kitty?” 

“Nothing,” my lady replied with a smile. 

“Come then, how did she look ?” 

“T didn’t see her.” 

He was disappointed. “Well, I thought that you would 
have found out something.” 

She looked at him, laying a shy hand on his arm— 
for the sake of touching him. “I found out all, sir.” 

“Then she——” 

My lady nodded. “Yes, it is as I thought,” she said 
soberly. 

“But how could you tell, my dear?” 

Her eyes laughed. “Did I tell you?” she murmured. 

He looked at her. “Lord, what a fool I have been!” 
he said. And to hide something else, “Let us go out, 
my dear. It is a glorious morning.” 


330 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


But the spring brings showers as well as sunshine. And 
though the brightness of my lady’s eyes was no longer 
dimmed by a cloud, and she had often to lower them that 
she might not betray herself to the very servants who 
waited on her, the outer world was grey and the trees 
dripped on a morning three days later, when Rachel 
knocked at the door of the Countess’s room. Bidden to 
come in, the girl entered. Her face was grave and her 
lips were set in an unnatural line. : 

My lady put aside her work. “Well, my dear?” she 
said. “What is it? Has Ann been misbehaving again?” 

“No. She is wonderfully good—for her. But I have 
come,” Rachel’s eyes were fixed on the carpet, “to ask—L 
am sorry, very sorry to inconvenience you, but would you 
please to release me?” 

The Countess stared. “Release you, my dear?” she 
exclaimed. “Why? Do you mean that you want to go? 
To leave us?” 

“If you please.” 

“Do you mean now—at once?” 

“Tf you please.” 

“But why? Why?’ Lady Ellingham turned herself so 
as to face the governess more squarely. “What in the 
world do you mean? What has happened? Is your 
mother ill?” 

“No. But—but I wish to go.” 

“T never heard of such a thing!” my lady cried. “What 
has happened? If it is not Ann—has anyone been rude 
to you? If so, I will very soon ” She broke off as 
another idea occurred to her and brought the colour to 
her face. “Or is it—surely, surely you are not so foolish! 
You don’t mean, child, that you are going back to what 
I said a fortnight ago, when—when something had put 
me out. I was not well, and—my dear, if you are bring- 
ing that up again, if you are so silly after all that has 
happened, I shall have—indeed I shall have a poor opinion 
of you.” 





THE BETTER PART OF COURAGE 331 


“Tt is not that!” 

St 

“Indeed, indeed it is not that!” For a moment the 
girl’s distress broke through her resolved air. “But—l 
am not happy here—and I wish to go.” She twisted and 
untwisted her fingers. 

“Silly girl, you would be no happier elsewhere. I am 
sure of that, and I shall not let you go. Where shall 
I find anyone to manage Ann as well as you do? There, 
my dear,” and my lady put the matter aside and turned 
to her work, “run away and put this foolish idea out of 
your head.” 

But Rachel held her ground. “I must go,” she said in 
a low voice. “I have written to my mother that—that 
I am coming.” 

“Then you had no right to do so. And you must write 
again and tell her that you are not coming. Come, run 
away. ‘That is settled.” 

But Rachel persisted. “I must go,” she said. “I want 
to go. Indeed, indeed I do.” 

“Without notice?” 

Rachel’s lips trembled. “I am sure that you are too 
kind to keep me against my will. I want to go! I want 
to go!” she repeated, clasping her hands. “I am not 
happy here.” 

My lady considered her in silence. “Miss South,” she 
said at last in an altered tone. “I hope—lI hope that it 
is not as I begin to suspect. I do trust that it is not Mr. 
Girardot that you are unhappy about? If I thought 
it was that I should write to your mother fy 

“Oh, don’t do that!” Rachel exclaimed, her cheeks flam- 
ing. “It is an insult to suppose that I—that I’’—she 
stopped, and in a moment her whole aspect changed, and 
lowering her eyes she traced a pattern on the carpet with 
her toe—“that I am thinking of him! But perhaps—it 
has something to do with that. I met him here, and as 
long as I am here I am unhappy. I am very unhappy,” 





332 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


she repeated in a piteous voice, “and, if you please, I 
must go.” 

“Oh dear, dear,” my lady said, and her face was grave. 
“Yet you know—you must know that he is not worthy 
of you! That he is not worthy of a single thought. He 
deceived you, and i 

“But we cannot always—we are not always able 
Rachel’s faltering voice trickled into silence, leaving the 
sentence unfinished. 

“IT am very, very sorry,” the Countess said, and her face 
bore out her words. “This is sad. Don’t you think that 
time, my dear te 

“Not here,” Rachel murmured. 

“Oh, dear, dear,” my lady repeated. She looked really 
upset. “And you want to go at once?” | 
““T'o-morrow—if I may. Oh, Lady Ellingham—please 

let me go to-morrow.” 

The Countess sighed. “Very well,’ she said at last. 
“Tt shall be as you wish. But you will remember, my dear, 
that wherever you are, we are your friends. ‘That you can 
never be to us as others. You know that we owe our 
boy’s life to you, and perhaps in a few months But 
I shall write to your mother.” 

That alarmed Rachel. “But you won’t tell her <4 

“Why you are leaving us? No, for I trust to your good 
sense. .[ am sure that you will have the strength to con- 
quer this fancy. Otherwise it would be my duty to write. 
As it is, your mother will think it strange that we should 
part with you so lightly. She will think us very ungrate- 
ful, my dear. Now you must promise me that you will 
put this unhappy feeling out of your mind.” 

Rachel said meekly that she would try. And she 
meant it. 

“For that way lies nothing but misery. Nothing can 
come of it. You see that for yourself?” 

“T do, I do!” Rachel answered miserably. “That is 
why I want to go.” 





bP 














THE BETTER PART OF COURAGE 333 


“Oh, dear, dear!” my lady repeated. “Well, I'll give 
the orders, but I don’t know what Ann will say.” 

And for some minutes after Rachel had crept away my 
lady sat in deep thought. In the end she seemed to see 
compensation. “Perhaps it is for the best,” she reflected. 
“He may have thought better of it, and, look at it how 
you will, it is a mésalliance. Yes, no doubt it is for the 
best. But I hope that he will not blame me.” 

It was Bowles who was this time the first to hear 
the news, and Bowles who laden with it broke in on 
Mrs. Jemmett’s after-dinner nap. “Well,’ he an- 
nounced, “if I don’t astonish you this time, Mrs. J., ’m 
d——d.” 

“You do astonish me!” the housekeeper retorted, as she 
sat up and straightened her cap. “If I have told you 
once, my man, I; have told you a dozen times—no lan- 
guage in this room!” 

“Excuse! But, by gum, ma’am, the girl’s going!” 

Mrs. Jemmett stared. “Not the governess?” 

“You’ve said it, ma’am.” 

“Umph! Well, Vl believe it when I see it. Don’t 
stare, man, like a duck in thunder. They couldn’t let 
her. Why, I told you myself no longer ago than yester- 
day that I saw my lady put her hand on her shoulder in 
the hall as if—why just as if a 

“Well, she’s going,” Bowles persisted. “I met Priscilla 
on the front stairs, and ‘You’ve no business here,’ says I, 
pretty sharp. ‘I want some string,’ says she, ‘and I saw 
a piece——’ ‘You'll see the outside of the door with a 
flea in your ear!’ I answered. ‘String? What do you 
want with string? It’s not the governess going this time!’ 
‘It’s just that, Mr. Bowles,’ says she, whimpering, ‘and 
her bag > ‘Now none of your lies, I said, and I 
gave the girl a good shake. ‘You are up to some game 
of your own, you young baggage!’ ‘Indeed [’m not, 
sir, says she. ‘It’s gospel truth. She’s going and her 
bag ‘D—n her bag!’ I said, but I saw that the 











334 QUEEN’S FOLLY, 


wench believed it and I came away. I knew that you’d 
like to hear.” 

Mrs. Jemmett ruminated. “It’s odd,” she said, “if so 
be it’s true. Why should she go? It’s not her ladyship 
this time, that’s certain.” 

“Her ladyship? Why you might light candles at her 
eyes these days! She wouldn’t hurt a fly. A blind man 
might see how things are with her! Didn’t she order 
the Queen’s quilt that my lord sets such store by to be 
got out of the satinwood chest, and put i 

“Bowles!” Mrs. Jemmett exclaimed. “You trench, 
man! If you don’t know by this time that there are things 
that in well-conducted houses are not noticed i 

“But one can’t help one’s thoughts, ma’am,” Bowles 
pleaded. “Don’t say now as it don’t set you thinking, 
Mrs. J.?” 

“T hope I am not that kind of person,’ Mrs. Jemmett 
replied stiffly. 

Bowles dropped the subject. “Well, anyway it’s not 
my lord,” he said. “Honey won’t melt in his mouth. 
But I am not so certain about the young ladyship. She’s 
a little devil in her tantrums, and she and miss had a 
turn-up yesterday.” 

“And she went half an hour later,” Mrs. Jemmett 
rejoined from a height of superior knowledge, “and 
asked miss to box her ears. Priscilla was there and told 
me.” 

“Then I’m fair flummoxed.” 

“Tt don’t take much to flummox you, Bowles. If you 
ask me I think the girl has been setting her cap at my 
lord, and now she sees it’s no good, she’s off.” 

The butler stared. “Well, set a woman to catch a 
woman,” he said. “I’d not have thought of that in a 
month of Sundays. But you’ve a powerful mind, Mrs. 
Jemmett, and if you’d only a softer heart and some- 
times thought of yours truly se 











THE BETTER PART OF COURAGE 335 


“T think very little of him,” the housekeeper retorted. 
with a heightened colour. 

“For, as for quilts, ma’am, and well you know it, it’s 
not the quilt as matters, it?s the-———” 

“Bowles!” Mrs. Jemmett rose in her outraged modesty. 
“I’m surprised at you!” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 
HomMeE 


SHE was going home, to her mother, to Ruth, to the cot- 
tage by the sea. Every turn of the wheels brought her 
nearer, and already she could picture the rapturous wel- 
come, the loving embrace that awaited her at her journey’s 
end. Yet the hoof-beat of the horses as the carriage 
rolled along the road beside the Ringwood water-meadows, 
where the king-cups already laid golden patches on the 
green and the new-risen sun drank up the mists above 
Somerley, failed to elate her. Home? The word did 
indeed carry her mind back to her departure thence and 
to the incidents of that first journey; but it was with 
something like envy that she recalled the fears of that 
day, the shyness that had enfolded her, her misgivings lest 
she should miss the coach, her apprehensions of the recep- 
tion that awaited her. She could smile at them now. 
They had been but the tremors of youth and inexperience. 
For, had she but known it, she had been happy then, heart- 
free, care-free, untouched by the real troubles of life. 
Now 

She sank lower in her corner, a small, lonely figure 
staring out with sad eyes, as the chaise rattled over the 
bridge at Fordingbridge and swerving to the right passed 
before the Greyhound. For there she recalled another 
scene, a night scene; and once more she slid, sore and 
aching from the saddle, once more crept, too weary to 
resist, into the shelter of the wondering, awakened inn. 
How kind he had been to her, how thoughtful, how con- 
siderate—though he too must have been racked with weari- 

336 





HOME 337 


ness! With what care, veiled under rough manners, had 
he lapped the poor dependant about, fenced her from 
curiosity, attended to her wants! And, last kindness of 
all, with what firmness had he enforced her return, and 
at the Folly shielded and protected her! Fondly, fool- 
ishly she recalled it all; trifles that she had not seemed to 
see, words that she had not seemed to hear, touches that 
set her blood tingling. She shed a few tears in the 
corner of the chaise, and, “It was time that I came away!” 
she thought. “A few kind words and I—oh, I am a fool! 
Tama fool! What would my mother say!” 

And at Salisbury, where she had to wait an hour, 
strolling up and down between the White Hart and the 
water channel that ran along the base of the Close Wall, 
it was the same. She might have visited the Cathedral— 
it was but a step. But she preferred to pass her time 
within sight of the yard, and again she saw—but with 
other eyes, the tall figure in the shabby. sea-cloak that 
talked with the landlord, again she saw the Captain stalk 
masterfully into the room where she cowered in her cor- 
ner, saw him tug at the bell, heard him call for “that 
catlap,” owned the good-nature that made her share it 
and forced him, in sheer pity, to put up with her com- 
pany. Nor did her thoughts stop there—for what to the 
woman who loves is dearer than the man’s foible, the 
weakness that makes her mother as well as mistress to 
him? Again she heard him hum his eternal 


“Oh, Hood and Howe and Jervis 
Are masters of the main, 
Cornwallis sweeps the narrow seas 
And logs the weather-vane. 

And Duncan in his seventy-four, 
His Venerable seventy-four.” 


Her eyes filled. How little had she understood the man, 
his nobleness, his generosity! How little foreseen the 
future, or her own weakness! “But indeed I will con- 


338 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


quer it,’ she vowed, furtively drying her eyes. And 
through the long coach-hours, while passengers entered 
and left unheeded, and Shaftesbury and Crewkerne flitted 
by unnoticed, she repeated her vow—yet now and again 
thought, perforce, of his lost arm and his maimed man- 
hood and shed a few more tears. But that was in the 
darkness when they were not far short of Exeter—and they 
were to be the last, the very last. Henceforth she would 
be sensible! 

And beyond Exeter, whence she drove through the night 
in a fly, giving her orders with an aplomb that a year ago 
would have astonished her, she flattered herself that she 
had succeeded. The nearness of her home, the sight of 
familiar things looming up and passing by, and presently 
the sound and tang of the sea, and the shimmer of the 
moon on its waters, shifted the direction of her thoughts. 
How often in the past months had she pictured her return, 
how often longed with passion to see the lighted porch and 
hear the home voices! And now—now they were at hand, 
ay, they broke upon her. Now, in a moment, all that 
she had pictured was hers; and if the two loved figures 
silhouetted against the cheerful doorway, if the clinging 
mother-arms, the loving greeting, the homely room and 
' the tea-board twinkling in her honour—if these had not 
drawn from her tears of another nature, she had not been 
Rachel, she had not been the affectionate creature that 
she was ! 

For the time, the Folly, its life and its inmates, receded 
into a dim background, and with a dear hand clasped in 
each of hers, she rested on the bosom of the love that 
had been hers from childhood. She looked around with 
a full heart; she saw the old things, the old greying tabby 
curled up on a chair, the china dogs on the shelf, the hiss- 
ing kettle, and asked herself what, what more could she 
wish for or desire. 

And still and withal there were little pin-pricks to be 
borne, questions to answer that were not easy to answer. 


HOME 339 


Why had she left? And so suddenly? And on what 
ground? And what had the Countess said? And had 
she been horrid? With some of these it was easy to deal. 
It was easy to assure Ruth that there had been no balls 
and that she had not once danced, that she had some- 
times come down in the evening, and that of late she had 
breakfasted with the family; that my lord did not wear 
a star, and that my lady only drove with four horses and 
an outrider when she paid visits. But it was not so easy 
to answer her mother’s questions as to her leaving; and 
though Mrs. South in these first moments of rejoicing did 
not push her inquiries, the mother’s instinct discerned that 
there was something still to be explained. And presently 
she fancied that she had the clue to the secret. 

For before Rachel had sat many minutes at her tea— 
and oh, the delicious meal taken in freedom with friendly 
eyes and hands about her!—the girl had herself a shock. 
“Lia, Rachel,’ Ruth cried, “and we’d forgotten! What 
do you think? But you know, I suppose? We had a 
visit from a beau of yours last week!” 

“A beau of mine?” Rachel faltered, her hand arrested. 
“What do you mean, my dear?” 

“And such a beau!” Ruth’s eyes were dancing. “The 
handsomest man! And he talked beautifully. I fell in 
love with him myself.” 

“But who was it?” 

Ruth laughed. “What will you give to know? Who, 
indeed? As if you don’t know, cunning!” 

“Indeed, indeed,” Rachel said, avoiding her mother’s 
eyes, “I don’t. I cannot imagine who would come here.” 

“Not Mr. Girardot?” 

Rachel’s face flamed. “Mr. Girardot!” she exclaimed. 

“And oh, the dandy—I never! He hoped to find you 
here and wished to know when we expected you, and 
inquired te 

“T hope you did not say that I was coming.” 

“We did not know,” her mother replied. Rachel’s con- 





340 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


fusion had not escaped her. “He was only in the neigh- 
bourhood for a night, he said, and we could tell him 
nothing.” 

“T am glad of that,” Rachel rejoined. She had recovered 
her composure. “I do not like him, and I do not wish 
to see him.” 

“Oh, but Rachel!” Ruth protested, quite cast down. 
“He is so good-looking! And he asked so anxiously after 
you.” 

“He is good-looking, but 

“Perhaps his good looks are his best point,” her mother 
said soberly. 

“Yes, mother, that is so. I hope that he will not come 
again.” And Rachel hastened to change the subject. 

But naturally Mrs. South drew her conclusions. Pend- 
ing Rachel’s arrival she had been inclined to connect the 
girl’s return with the stranger’s visit; and she had given 
some rein to a mother’s hopes and fears, for she knew 
from Rachel’s letters who Girardot was and the position 
he had filled at Queen’s Folly. But she knew little more, 
for Rachel had shrunk from telling the story. Now Mrs. 
South still connected the two events, but after a different 
fashion, and she was troubled; and when the lights had 
been put out, and the three were climbing the stairs, 
that seemed to Rachel’s eyes steeper and narrower than 
of old, she got a word alone with her girl. “There is 
nothing between you and this gentleman, my dear?” she 
said. ‘You will tell me, I am sure, if there is.” 

“Nothing, dear mother, nothing!” But the girl’s col- 
our rose. “How could there be? He is married.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. South averted her eyes. She was startled. 
“T did not know that, of course.” And she hastened to 
get away from a subject so dangerous. “You left Lady 
Ellingham on good terms, I trust?” she asked anxiously. 
“There was no trouble?” 

“None. She was most kind. She told me that she 
would give me the best of recommendations, and with that 


39 





HOME 341 


I shall have no difficulty in getting another situation. 
You see,’ Rachel continued, with an affectionate hug, 
“T am experienced now, mother. But with people not so 
grand, I hope. I was not”—with a quivering mouth— 
“very happy there.” 

“No, my dear, I understand that. And you were wise 
to come away. But now you are here we must keep you 
a little while. Ah, Rachel, how I have missed you!” And 
the two women laughed and cried in one another’s arms. 

But to the fledgling that has once flown from the nest, 
the nest is never the same again. And so Rachel, hiding 
a sore heart, discovered in the weeks that followed. Put 
the best face on it that she could, she was restless and 
unhappy. The hours that had once been too short for 
the daily tasks now seemed tedious and vacant. The old 
occupations were no longer enough. ‘The very affection 
that wrapped her about, filled her with self-reproach be- 
cause it had ceased to satisfy. She longed to be alone, and 
often she stole away to pass hours by the sea, finding in 
its wide greyness and the sad, monotonous fall of the 
waves on the beach a something that suited her mood. 
She wandered away, but only to return ashamed of the 
selfish feelings in which she had lapped herself. She told 
herself bravely that time would work a cure, and that by 
and by she would be again as she had been. But time is a 
medicine slow to operate, and meanwhile the girl suf- 
fered, unable to pluck from her heart the image that 
haunted it, or to put from her the memories that set her 
pulses leaping, the dreams that brought the blood to 
her cheeks. 

No, though with shame she owned that she had only 
herself to blame: that she had given her heart to one who 
had not sought it nor asked for it, and who was so far 
above her, so widely removed from her, that could he 
be made aware of the gift, he must smile at her folly. 
And she had given it in return for what? For a few 
kind words, a service that, the man being what he was, 


342 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


he would have performed for a beggar-woman! And be- 
cause he, Heaven save the mark, had lost an arm! For 
that, she told herself with cruel frankness, had put the 
finishing touch to her surrender! 

It was weakness incredible, and with all her strength 
she strove to be cheerful, strove to be the daughter that 
she had been! She hid her feelings, and tried to make 
the best of things; and often her face would burn with 
shame as she sat with those who deemed her good, who 
held her sensible, nor in their innocence had it in them 
to conceive of her as she really was—possessed by this 
unmaidenly yearning, this feverish longing that racked 
her heart. 

But strive as she might, Mrs. South was not deceived. 
She saw with clear eyes that all was not well with the 
girl, and she fancied that in the handsome tutor she held 
the key to the trouble. For a while she too comforted 
herself with the reflection that time would work a cure. 
But when a month had gone by and Rachel, in spite of 
all her efforts—and the mother saw that the girl made 
gallant efforts—still pined and moped, Mrs. South deter- 
mined that a change must be made. She longed to keep 
the stricken lamb, never dearer to her than now; but a 
higher love gave her strength, and one morning, when 
Rachel had stolen away along the shore, she put on her 
bonnet and followed her. 

“T will walk a little way with you, my dear,” she said. 
“T want a breath of air. I have had the grocer’s bill 
and it is larger than I expected. You haven’t’”—oh, cun- 
ning mother !—“‘five pounds left of your salary, have you?” 

Rachel fell into the trap. “Of course I have!” she cried. 
“And more! I will go back and get it, mother. How 
glad I am that I can help you!” 

“Well, it is a help,’ Mrs. South admitted, and turned 
with her. “But there is no hurry. We need not go so 
fast, my dear.” 

But Rachel’s thoughts were travelling more swiftly 


HOME 343 


than her feet and in the precise direction that her mother 
desired. “Oh, dear,” she cried remorsefully. “And I 
have been living on you! I ought to have looked out 
for something before this! I will write an advertise- 
ment to-day. You know,” she added cheerfully, “I am 
an experienced young woman now, recommended by the 
nobility and gentry.” | 

“I am sorry to lose you, you know that, my dear. 
But @ 

“But there is that ‘but, isn’t there, mother dear? And 
I don’t mind a bit going out now! The first time it 
was rather terrible.” 

“Yes, Rachel, I know.” And the mother’s heart ached 
for her child. But she made no sign. It was better that 
the girl should go from her, and in a new scene, where 
she would be forced to exert herself, should win back her 
peace. ? 

They were within a hundred yards of the cottage, and 
Rachel was planning her advertisement, when the little 
maid appeared coming to meet them. “What is it now?” 
Mrs. South exclaimed. “I am afraid that Deb has burned 
the potatoes again.” 

But it was not that. It was a visitor—a stranger. He 
had asked for the young mistress. 

“Oh dear!” Rachel exclaimed, her eyes betraying her 
alarm. 

“Ts it the gentleman who called a month or so ago?” 
Mrs. South asked anxiously. 

But Deb could not say. She had been out when the 
other gentleman had called. 

“Very well,” Mrs. South said. “We will follow you.” 
But when the maid had tripped away, “I am afraid that it 
is,’ she said, her face grave. “Do you wish to see him, 
Rachel ?” 

“Mr. Girardot? No, certainly not.” 

“You don’t a 

“No, no!” with anger. “I won’t see him.” 








344 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


“Very well, my dear. Then you had better turn back. 
I will see him.” 

“And you will send him away, mother ?” 

“Certainly. I shall tell him that you do not wish to 
see him.” 

“Please, please do. I won’t see him.” 

“That is enough, my dear,” Mrs. South said, and leaving 
her daughter she went on alone. But as the mother ap- 
proached the cottage her thoughts were busy and her face 
was sad. Rachel was acting as she would have her act, 
but Mrs. South had no doubt now that her conjectures 
were justified. This was a bad man and the cause of her 
daughter’s unhappiness. He was a married man, and no 
doubt he had trifled with her—with a sigh Mrs. South re- 
called his good looks and his plausible address. Well, she 
must be plain with him, round with him, while she must 
not betray her child. As she walked she planned what 
she would say and how she would dismiss him. The 
task was no light one, no pleasant one. And it had fallen 
to her when she least expected it. 

Meanwhile Rachel, hot with indignation, turned back, 
and as quickly as she could placed a sandhill between her- 
self and the cottage. She felt herself outraged by Girar- 
dot’s intrusion. It recalled things that she was bitterly 
anxious to forget, it brought home to her her perpetual, her 
hopeless weakness, it set her present folly in the worst, the 
most humiliating light. That the man should be so 
shameless, so persistent! That he should presume to fol- 
low her, to pursue her even in her mother’s house! That 
he should dare to ignore the wrong that he had sought to 
do her, and the circumstances in which they had parted! 
Oh, he was abominable! He was utterly, utterly bad! 

But—but, a small voice whispered, he was at least con- 
stant. He had not, she reflected with shame, a heart for 
all comers, as she, wretched, feeble, fickle girl, had! And 
if he suffered as she suffered? The sea-gulls wailed above 
her head, the scrubby grass that clothed the sandhills 


HOME 345 


rustled coldly in the breeze, the sea stretched away, grey, 
flat, illimitable under a leaden sky; and suddenly chilled, 
stricken by an unhappy sense of kinship with the man and 
of a common fate, Rachel owned the sadness of life. He 
suffered, and by his own fault. And she suffered, and by 
her own fault; for what plea, what defence had she to urge, 
when a woman’s pride, a woman’s reserve, had twice failed 
her—in a twelvemonth. The waves fell on the beach at. 
her feet, coldly, sullenly, persistently, as they had fallen 
for ages and would fall for ages to come. They gave her 
melancholy answer. 

She was wandering at large, no longer blaming him but 
herself, when a cry reached her ears, and she saw Deb wav- 
ing to her from the crest of the sandhill—it was the one 
on which they spread their linen to dry on washing-days. 
She turned and went back to meet the girl, thankful that 
at any rate that was over. No doubt he was gone. 

She found a minute later that her relief was premature. 
“Tf you please,’ the maid announced, “the mistress says, 
will you come in.” 

“The gentleman has gone?” 

“No, miss. The mistress is with him. She came out 
to send me.” 

Rachel’s heart sank. What could it mean? What 
could he have told her mother? She questioned Deb, but 
Deb was clear. The mistress had told her to find Miss 
Rachel and bring her in. 

“Very well,’ Rachel said wearily, “I will come.” And 
with lagging feet she followed Deb back to the cottage. 
If it had to be, it had to be. But what had he told her 
mother? What strange colour had he put on things that 
had induced her mother to allow, nay, to wish her to see 
him ? 


CHAPTER XXXVII 
THe Dutuarps THat Men ArRzE! 


Her mother was waiting for her in the porch, and their 
eyes met. “Oh,” Rachel murmured, “must I see him?” 
She clasped her hands. Every fibre in her was in revolt 
against the interview. 

Mrs. South’s face wore a flush, and she looked worried 

and anxious. But her reply was decisive. “Yes, you 
must see him,” she said. “That is quite certain. But— 
but oh, my dear,” she spoke with deep feeling, yet in a 
low voice, for the door of the parlour was only a pace 
away, “think before you speak. And don’t, don’t, my 
darling”—she laid a timid hand on her daughter’s arm— 
“let a fancy, such as I fear you have, blind you to—I don’t 
say your duty, Rachel, I don’t dare, for I don’t know all 
and I fear to press you. But promise me, promise me, my 
own, that you will not act hastily.” 
- Rachel wondered. Surely, surely her mother, who 
knew her, might trust her to do right in so clear a case. 
And yet that mother was trembling with anxiety. “I 
have only one thing to say,” she replied coldly. “You 
must know that, mother.” 

“Yet, oh, my dear, think!” And as Rachel turned to 
enter the parlour, Mrs. South caught her again by the 
sleeve—she did not seem able to let her go. “I fear to 
say too much, for I am in the dark. It has come as a great 
surprise to me. And it seems so—oh, I don’t know how 
to say it, but”—she folded her in a hasty embrace—“may 
God guide you rightly! He seems to me a good man, and 
if I could believe 2 





346 


THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARE! 347 


Rachel cut her short. “He is not a good man,” she 
said. “And I have only one thing to say to him. I have 
not fallen to that extent,” with a look of reproach. “You 
may trust me, mother!” And heedless of a last appeal that 
Mrs. South would have urged, she passed with a firm step 
into the parlour and closed the door. The ordeal would 
be painful, but she was determined that it should be short. 

He had been pacing the narrow room, but he had heard 
her step outside, and when she entered he was standing, 
looking through the latticed window. He had put off his 
cloak, that very cloak which had a cherished place in her 
memory, and a single glance should have informed Rachel 
who he was. But so strong was the fixed idea that for a 
whirling second or two her mind rejected the impossible, 
and she fancied that her sight deceived her. 

Then—she knew. She grasped the certainty that the 
last person in the world whom she had expected to see 
had turned and with his back to the light was looking at 
her; and in the first rapture of surprise, of seeing him, of 
being in the same room with him, of being about to hear 
his voice, the blood fled from her face. She gripped the 
back of a chair, and dizzy with emotion supported herself 
by it. “Captain Dunstan!” she ejaculated. 

The man’s eyes devoured her, but his heart sank. For 
he had told himself, while he waited and his gaze roved 
over the humble ornaments, the household things that her 
touch had hallowed—he had told himself with simple 
craft that if she blushed when she saw him, all would be 
well—he would have his heart’s desire. But seeing, in- » 
stead of a blush, a white startled face, he told himself that 
all was wrong. Still he was no faint heart and he rallied. 
“Yes,” he said. “You see J have come to see you in your 
home. I fear I have taken you by surprise.” 

“My mother did not say ” she stammered, halted. 
“Of course—I did not expect you.” ‘Then with an effort, 
“Won't you sit down?” And in an agony of nervousness 
Rachel turned, apparently to draw up the chair by which 





348 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


she stood, but in truth to hide the burning colour that now 
flooded her face. She need not have troubled herself, 
however, for as, summoning all her self-control, she faced 
him, her eyes fell on the empty sleeve pinned to his breast, 
and again her blood ebbed and her eyes filled. “Oh!” 
she exclaimed. “I am sorry!” 

He understood. “About this?” he said briskly, shaking 
the stump. “Pooh, it’s cheap at the price! They take 
me for Nelson in the street. A little awkward, as it is 
the right arm you know. But”’—for a moment his dark 
keen eyes dwelt on her—“I hope to replace it to-day.” 

She did not follow this, but, thank Heaven, she was re- 
gaining some control of herself. They were now seated, 
and “I suppose that you are staying in the neighbour- 
hood—with Lady Elisabeth perhaps?” she murmured, in 
as commonplace a tone as she could manage. But why, 
oh why did not her mother come in? 

“No,” he replied in his downright fashion. “I’m not 
staying with Lady Elisabeth. I came to see you.” 

She was hopelessly at sea. What could he mean, and 
why did he look at her so oddly? It was impossible that 
he had taken that long journey to see her! She must have 
misunderstood him, or—yes, that must be it. He brought 
some message, an invitation to return, perhaps, from Lady 
Ellingham. And seizing in her embarrassment on the 
thought, “Lady Ellingham?” she murmured. “She is 
well, I hope?” 

“She was yesterday.” 

“And—and Lady Ann?” 

“Ann? Oh, Ann is never ill. She is like me.” 

“And”—she knew that she was talking absurdly, but 
in her confusion and her fear of silence she felt that she 
must go through every member of the family—‘“‘and Lord 
Ellingham ?” 

“Fred? Oh, he’s all right. And the boy. But I didn’t 
come to talk about them.” 


THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARE! 349 


“The forest,” she said faintly, “must be looking lovely 
now.” 

“T hope you will judge for yourself.” He straightened 
himself and stood up. After all it was not much worse 
than a cutting out! “I didn’t come to talk about that 
either.” 

He glanced darkly at her, and suddenly it was borne in 
upon Rachel that he too was not at his ease; and the dis- 
covery steadied her. “I came,” he continued, looking at 
her and looking away again, “to rig a jury-arm, if you un- 
derstand—two for one, if you understand, my dear. But 
it is a business I’ve no experience of. I know very well 
the port I am bound for, but I don’t know how to lay the 
course unless you’ll help me. But—you don’t know what 
I am talking about?” 

“No,” Rachel confessed. She was looking at him with 
troubled eyes, and her heart was thumping painfully. It 
was impossible, oh, it could not be! And yet his manner 
was so odd. 

“No, of course you don’t.” He began to pace this way 
and that, jerking the stump of the right arm. “How the 
devil should you? I’ve flown no colours. But do you re- 
member that night at Whitsbury, Miss South? There !”— 
to himself—“T hope to God that’s the last time! Well, I 
made up my mind that night that I’d found the wife 
that—that would suit me—if I could get her. But, mind 
you, it’s no light thing to take a wife and I am no 
youngster to take up with the first petticoat on the Hard; 
and I said to myself, ‘I’ll haul off a bit, and see if I am 
in the same mind.’ And I’ve waited and I’m more of 
that mind than ever. And you may be sure, my dear, that 
I’m no Dutch ketch, veering and falling off when the wind 
shifts a point, and where my hand goes my heart goes with 
it, and stays. I can’t make pretty speeches, as they make 
’em in drawing-rooms, but I stick by what I say. And,” 
hesitating, “if you don’t feel that you can take me at once— 


350 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


and, d—n it all, why should you?—I’ll haul off for a 
month and come back when you’re ready.” 

Rachel’s heart thumped no longer. She understood at 
last, and faced him with steadfast eyes, marvelling at her 
own firmness. The trouble would come later, when every 
blunt word that he had said, burnt in on her heart, would 
smart to agony. But for the moment she was firm, almost 
cold. Already she had made up her mind what she must 
answer, what was the only thing that she could answer. 
Yet—yes, she must have it clear. “I don’t think that I 
understand,” she said. 

“But, confound it, ’ve been plain. ‘Too plain, perhaps? 
And*I’ve spoken to your mother.” 

For a moment her voice failed her. Ah, but how good, 
how generous he was. Then, “Do you mean,” she said, 
“that you are asking me to be your wife, Captain Dun- 
stan ?” 

“T’ve said so, haven’t I? Plump and plain. I meant 
to" 

“Yes. But I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe,” 
she continued firmly, “that you could be so imprudent. 
For,” with a pale smile, “I might have accepted you, you 
know. The honour you do me is so great, so very great 
for one in my position, and you have so much to offer that 
I might have been foolish enough to accept you, sir—not 
loving you. But I cannot be so unworthy of your good 
opinion. What you suggest is impossible. There is too 
great,’ she paused, marvelling anew at her own coolness, 
“there is far too great a distance between us, between 
Captain Dunstan and his sister’s governess for—for it to 
be possible. For any happiness to come of it. This—this 
is my home and I love it and am at ease in it. But you 
couldn’t be at home in it, nor I be happy or at home at 
Queen’s Folly—among those to whom I do not belong. 
You know”—for a moment her voice trembled perilously— 
“there are flowers that will only grow on the north side of 
the wall.” 


THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARE! 351 


“Fudge!” he cried. 

Rachel shook her head. “No,” she said, “it is the best 
of sense.” 

“Then you don’t care for me!” He turned away, turned 
abruptly and looked through the window; while Rachel 
cowered in her chair, clutching herself lest even now 
pain should wring a cry from her. But it would soon be 
over—soon, and he would be gone. 

He turned again. “Well, I don’t know why the devil 
you should,” he said, “as I never signalled you. It is my 
fault. But see here, my girl, couldn’t you? I don’t say 
love me at once, but couldn’t you like me? Couldn’t you 
like me well enough to sign articles by and by?” 

One last effort—but it was cruel, cruel to ask so much 
of her. “No,” she answered slowly—and, ah, the pain it 
cost her, for she knew that with that word she barred the 
door that she had already closed on her happiness. “I am 
sure, Captain Dunstan, that I can never lke you better 
than I do now. Or feel differently towards you. I am 
quite sure of that.” 

“Well,” he answered, “that’s flat. That’s plain.” He 
averted his eyes and stared at the wall. “I’ve a letter here 
from Kitty for you, but”—to himself—“no, why should 
I plague the girl with it? If she don’t like me, that’s all. 
Only,” turning almost savagely and looking down his long 
sharp nose at her, “if it’s that d—d Girardot, I'll break his 
neck, d’you hear? He’s not fit to clean your shoes.” © 

“Tt is not,” she said dully. “I care nothing for him.” 

“Nor for me,” he answered gloomily. Then, after a 
pause, “Well, there it is.’ He held out his hand. “I’m 
obliged to you for your honesty. Yes, damme, I am. 
You are what I thought you and what I knew you were, 
and I can’t say more. Oh, d—n it, goodbye, and God bless 
you, and—don’t let me make a fool of myself!” 

She put a cold hand into his, and he wrung it so hard 
that at another time she must have cried out. Then he 
turned to the door. She watched him struggle left-handed 


352 QUEEN’S FOLLY. 


with the latch—he did not seem to see well—watched 
him open the door at last and go out. She watched him 
dumbly, though it needed all her strength to hold back 
the cry of anguish that rose to her lips, the cry that would 
even now, she knew, bring him to her side. “ 

But when the door was shut upon him her strength 
failed. She could bear no more. As she heard his re- 
treating footsteps she flung herself face downwards on 
the chair on which she had sat, and dry sobs shook her 
form, tore her bosom, stifled her. Oh, it was too much! 
Too much had been asked of her. And perhaps, perhaps 
she was wrong! Perhaps she had flung away her happi- 
ness for a scruple, a nothing! 

He had found no one in the passage—the mother had 
fled upstairs to pray—and with a stern face he had 
struggled into his cloak and stalked away. He made 
with rapid strides for the little hamlet where he had left 
his postchaise, and from which he had walked with joyous 
anticipation, with so hopeful a heart. Well, it was over, 
All over! 

But when he had placed fifty yards between himself 
and the cottage his hand, thrust into the pocket of his 
cloak, encountered his sister-in-law’s letter, and he stood. 
“Umph!” he muttered, frowning at the grey waste of sea 
that plashed sadly at his feet. “She may as well see what 
they think of her. It is but fair.” He turned about 
with his usual abruptness, and as rapidly as he had come 
he retraced his steps. He strode through the porch, saw 
no one, and careless, as ever, of ceremony and. intent only 
on his purpose he opened the parlour door. 

She did not hear him, much less see him. But he saw 
her. He looked down at the grief-racked little form, he 
heard the long slow sobs that shook it, he gazed spell- 
bound at the slender white nape and the mass of fair 
curls cast in abandonment on the outstretched arms that 
grasped the chair! And, dull as he had been, he was 
no longer deceived. He read the meaning of it, and no 


THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARE! 353 


change from cloud to sunshine sweeping over the heather- 
clad slope of a hill in spring was more wonderful than the 
change that transformed his plain face. At last, “You 
little liar!” he said. “You little liar!” 

The words were a thunder-clap. She looked up in- 
credulous, confounded. Her eyes met his, and was it her 
fault if her piteous face betrayed the truth? If it told 
him what he knew already, if surprised and convicted she 
had not a word to say, but, snatched up, had no longer the 
will to struggle or the breath to speak or lips to deny. 
If all the foolish wall of pretence that she had built up 
with anguish fell at a touch and left her on his breast. 

“But I never, never lied to you,” she protested a little 
later. “I only said that I could never love you better 
than I did. And it was true, sir.” 

“Like, you said, like, you little trickster !” 

“Well, perhaps it was only liking,” she replied demurely, 
but she did not deceive him twice. “Only, oh dear,’ and 
a cloud came over her happy, blushing face, “what will 
they say of it at the Folly? They will think you mad, 
and me—I do not know,” she cried, sarinking, “what 
they will think of me.” 

“Who o 

“All of them, sir. Lady Ellingham and Lord Ellingham 
and—and all.” 

“Hang them all! And Kitty and Fred? You shall 
see what they say.” And he took out the letter which, 
foolish, clumsy man, he should have shown her at the first. 

As she read it her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, they are 
kind!” she cried. “They are kind!” She kissed the let- 
ter. “And yet I shall be afraid to see them!” 

“Little silly!” he said. “Do you not know me yet? 
Do you think I am not master on my own quarter-deck ?” 

She looked at him daringly. “Then what am I?” she 
asked. 

His eyes twinkled. He told her. 

He stayed until late in the evening and sailor-like made 


354 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


himself at home. Rachel thought his manner to her 
mother delightful and loved him anew for it. And Mrs. 
South endeavoured to meet him in the same spirit. But 
the poor woman was weighed down by misgivings. She 
had been dazzled for an hour by the prospect opened be- 
fore her daughter; she had hoped and even prayed that 
the girl might accept this grand, this incredible offer— 
the impulse was natural. But the man, now that she 
considered him at close quarters, was strange to her and 
formidable. He loomed large in the little room; he was 
plain and blunt, authority spoke loud in him, and doubt- 
less her knowledge of his position doubled her sense of 
this. And awed by him, and deceived by Rachel’s man- 
ner—for the girl was too happy and perhaps too shy to 
talk much—the mother trembled and repented. 

And Ruth, had she been canvassed, would have agreed 
with her mother. From her corner she watched the two 
with the fascinated eyes of a girl emerging from child- 
hood, and engrossed in what she saw, she marvelled. She 
thought the Captain grim and very awful, but far from a 
hero of romance. She wondered at her sister’s courage 
in taking him, and above all she was curious. She col- 
oured when Rachel laid a hand on his shoulder as she 
passed behind him. She thrilled when she saw the same 
daring spirit take his egg from his grasp and cut off the 
top. She looked away when she detected him stretching 
out a hand to caress her sister’s skirt. Above all she 
burned with a devouring curiosity—had he kissed her? It 
seemed a thing inconceivable, incredible, impossible—that 
stranger! And when he did actually kiss her on taking 
leave, coolly, audaciously, and before their eyes, and Rachel, 
though she blushed deeply, made no demur, Ruth gasped. 
She felt that she had no more to learn. She was a woman, 
equipped for the world, experienced, without illusions. 

The mother crushed down her fears until on their way 
up to bed she got her darling to herself. Then searching 


THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARE! 355 


the girl’s face with wistful eyes, as she held her tenderly 
to her, she put her misgivings into words. “For oh, my 
dear, I am irightened,” she said. “I was wrong to press 
you. If you don’t feel sure, if you are not certain, draw 
back now, draw back, my dear, before it is too late. If 
you fear him, I will explain, I will see him myself fl 

“Fear him?” Rachel raised her brimming eyes to her 
mother’s face, and what the mother read in them dispelled 
once and for all her doubts. “Oh, mother, I love him, 
I love him dearly! He is the best, the kindest, the noblest 
of men! Heismine,my man! If I lost him now I think 
I should die!” 





He took her back to the Folly a week later, and on the 
way they had tea at the White Hart at Salisbury, and 
Rachel sat again in the chair in the dark corner to which 
she had once fled to avoid him; she looked again through 
the red-curtained window that opened on the yard. And 
if he had not pulled the bell-rope with violence and called 
the tea “cat-lap,” and boomed at John, and if the landlord 
had not come in respectfully to condole with him on 
the loss of his arm, the thing would not have been perfect. 
And after tea, while the fresh team was being harnessed, 
they strolled under the lofty elms in the quiet, stately Close, 
and she hung on his arm, and teased him. And in the 
chaise he hummed a new ditty: 


“Oh, First of Seamen, mist or shine, 
Thou shalt for ever break the line, 
And England keep, 
Dear England keep. 


Thy Elephant shall trumpet high, 
Thy Agamemnon proud reply, 

And laurels reap, 

Thy laurels reap. 


356 QUEEN’S FOLLY 


Thy Vanguard and thy Captain too 
Shall flaunt thy ghostly pennant blue, 
And sacred keep, 
Thy name shall keep 


When all the hearts of Oak that swim 
Shall tideless rest, their memory dim 
In Ocean’s deep, 
In Ocean’s sleep.” 


And her heart swelled, and she loved him for it. His 
voice, once so harsh, was sweet in her ears, and that which 
had been doggerel was by the magic of love’s alembic 
turned to poetry. But as they climbed the ascent beyond 
Ringwood, and the prospect of the Folly began to rise 
before her, she put her hand into his and she fell silent. 

“Ay,” said Bowles an hour later, “and I tell you, ma’am, 
it was as pretty a sight as you’d wish to see. The Captain, 
he stayed by the chaise seeing Charles and his man and 
the others take out the portmantles, and she come up 
the steps alone and frightened-like, hanging her head— 
she never was one for making the most of herself, as 
you know, Mrs. J., nor the figure to do it as some I could 
name. And first that little devil of a Lady Ann fell 
upon her and nearly knocked her down. Then half-way 
up his lordship meets her, and what he said I couldn’t 
hear. But she answered flurried-like, ‘I hope Lady Elling- 
ham is well” And he laughed—there’s no one can laugh 
more jolly than his lordship, I will say that—and says 
he, ‘Your sister is waiting for you in the hall, says he. 
And her ladyship met her at the top of the steps and took 
her and kissed her.” 

“There’s not much in kisses,’ said Mrs. Jemmett, 
grudgingly. 

“Well, ma’am, that’s not my opinion, Mrs. J. And I 
always have thought, and well you know it—that if you 
and me were to put our heads together—I could make 
you think different.” 


THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARE! 357 


“Bowles!” Mrs. Jemmett’s tone was awtul. “You 


trench, man, you trench!” 
“Well, ma’am,” audaciously. “What if we were to try? 


You don’t think e 
“T don’t think of no such things,” Mrs. Jemmett re- 


torted. But a smile trembled on her lips. 





THE END 


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Symes, 
a 
al 


byecst ase sneat 
- 


i Cheer 
ii oet beet estentaeesrel 
3 


joresresee eparse ss rae 
c yes 359 
pete! pea, 


< 
Snait 
pars ony 


: 
Eaalet 
al 
; 


HK ovesboseree ze. 
RICHES 


aoe 
Sererteet 
coast 


7 4 a 
ree eosbrer H. 


apie 
a 
Bi, 3 alt ie 


i 


a 
eet 
eahoee 


_ 


oe 
yes is 
ane stove) 
= me seoet ours 
erg seret aes > 


hese 


aot meet, 
phoat 
poet St 7007803 
ih svesneet dues 
parat dors 


rotiecastee rs 
z Pat tones 
* Piatestscestea 


ty 
r pawat 


eapeite 
best peostins: 
spies nests 
Lye yaertgets beet. 
7 A, - 
Sebiegtord *. 


separate ston 
7 beers 
_ 


coerat heat arya rants ome oe 
piogeal ven 


pyeoee 
eartoot jeratsees 
erhenet Por 
hese 
‘poe tgwest. 


i 


zt 

“ i oeeet, 
se peryirer 
Lose threes 


sta 
* 


Fost 


UNIV OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 


IN 





